


Blue is the Color of You

by LookAtTheFlowers



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Musician, Alternate Universe - Pianist, Anxiety, Aura sensing, Competition, Fluff and Angst, Grand Prix Final Banquet, I wasn't lying, Kind of a character study, M/M, Oblivious Katsuki Yuuri, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Love, These Two Are Hopeless, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Unreliable Narrator, VictUuri, be warned, but oh well, humor?, it's just one part of the world, more like relatable, seriously, small bit of magic?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24301720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookAtTheFlowers/pseuds/LookAtTheFlowers
Summary: Honestly, Yuuri should have expected to fail so fantastically at the Grand Prix International Piano Competition. He couldn't even achieve the simple task of being born right; born with fairly poor eyesight, and eyes stark of the brilliant and fulfilling colors that shadow humanity like beautiful ghosts. Or so, everyone tells him. He certainly wouldn't know; he's aura blind.Enter Victor into the equation, a 27 year old musician already upstaging world records like it's as easy as Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, who, in fact, sees auras so intensely he gets severe migraines, and you might as well have tried to mix oil in water, if you asked Yuuri.But, if you asked Victor, well. You wouldn't have been able to; he'd already be halfway around the world.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 25
Kudos: 65





	1. Casket of Woes!

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! 
> 
> And I'm sorry. This is my nerdy, musician AU. 
> 
> I'm intending to use all this ample quarantine time to frequently update.
> 
> I'm open to any comments, questions, etc. 
> 
> Enjoy.

“Next up, Katsuki Yuuri, from Japan. He will be performing Liebestraum No. 3, composer Liszt.”

Yuuri figured if Minako-sensei were here, she’d shove him out from behind the curtains like when he was young, stumbling and stuttering his way to that stiff, pry board bench, and those unyielding keys. A shade of a smile passed his chapped and well worn lips; younger Yuuri reminded him of Vicchan as a puppy. His smile soured quickly.

Yuuri and Yuko cooed over Vicchan, who was wriggling with excitement in Yuuri’s grasp.

“Wow! Is this little bundle of joy yours?” Joy, for certain.

“He’s practically glowing gold, Yuuri! He looks like a mini sun.” Even though he could not see it, he felt it, the liquid warmth of sunlight joy radiating from the puppie’s fluffy fur coat.

“His name is Vicchan!” Yuuri felt it was really no question. He had known it when he had first seen Victor posed happily with Makkachin in the recent magazine edition.

Yuko giggled with fondness. “You really are Victor’s biggest fan!”

Celestino gave him an awkward pat on the back, confidence in his smile, although his smile did not reach the worry in his eyes. Yuuri didn’t have to have aura sight to recognize the pity, or the doubt. He had adapted to the carefully displayed tells of body language and facial features, and, though there was always something intrinsically missing, Yuuri had never given it much thought beyond the occasional feelings of isolation that came with being alone in a world absent of emotive color.

Anger and shame. Embarrassment. They colored his cheeks an ugly red, because if there was one thing he hated more than losing, it was pity. He wondered if pity looked gray like an unfortunate overcast sky in Detroit as he walked unfamiliar streets, putting a damper on the activities of the afternoon while the population wandered about disgruntled, or if pity was the dullness that currently shrouded Celestino's hazel eyes as Yuuri made to stand on unsteady feet.

He wondered what color grief was.

Vicchan.

The color of his sweet, soft fur, the color of cinnamon? Or maybe, the color of the black storm that brewed the day he left Vicchan for Detroit, abandoned him.

Yuuri slid his glasses off of his nose, the familiar bouts of anxiety inflamed like a festering wound once the cool, sleek frames hit his palms.

It was then, blind, and vulnerable that he felt the tears threaten him. Because, just as he was devastated, he was angry.

At himself, for Vicchan.

At Celestino, for that look in his eyes.

At himself, because he worked so hard for this moment. For years, since he could hit his chubby fist on a keyboard, he practiced, for years, for hours upon mountains of hours, he practiced like he couldn’t live without the piano. He didn’t even have time to stress eat, because all he could stomach was the heaping piles of black notes on white paper.

All that he had worked towards; meeting Victor Nikiforov, making a successful debut at the Grand Prix Finals, making his parents proud, maybe even proving himself to himself. Well.

He just knew, from the way his body was trembling before he’d even placed his hand on the piano, that those were distant dreams, fading faster and faster, like he’d just woke up. And he had. The shallowness of his breath, the aching in his muscles, all of it was familiar in its terribleness. Yet, it all felt stale compared to this new stretch of welts that expanded fresh underneath his skin. Yuuri felt the need to tear underneath his skin with stubby, chewed up fingernails just to scratch at the foreign despair.

But. Even despite the fogginess blurring everything together like he was holding down the pedal, and the grief weighing down on his limbs like the oppressive beams from the stage lights, he could feel it. Pure, unfettered want. Burning desire.

It was almost dangerous, the determination that seared under his skin. He scared himself with how bad he yearned for success, because, others he was used to disappointing, but now that he had these new expectations for himself, born from how far he’d come, he didn’t know if he could live with those broken aspirations piercing under his skin.

It used to be easy, failing. He could believe, with frightening ease, that at every turn of failure, it was because he was simply not enough, that he was not good at the piano. But, hope is such a vicious and volatile force. And durable; even despite his self-prophesied doom, it fluttered its wings, barely, beneath all of the carnage in his ribcage.

He knew both the tragedy and the aspirations, and he accepted the challenge, accepted the beckon of the glinting keys and the gaping maw of the Beyond further out from the stage, and into the shark waters of the audience.

It was to these thoughts that he walked out from behind the stage curtains towards the piano like walking the death march to his own casket.

~~~

“Yuuri. Seriously, do I have to come in there?”

“No! Just let me die at peace, will you?” Yuuri buried his face in the clean soap smell of the hotel pillows, ears burning. The peaceful silence of the hotel room (if you discount his hopeless sobbing) was smudged again by the resurgence in his and Celestino’s plea war. “It’s not everyday you totally blow it in front of your idol, not to mention all the world class musicians that probably wish they had brought earplugs. Or bleach. And don’t get me started on the sponsors. How many people do you think started scrolling on Instagram while I crashed and burned, Celestino?”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Celestino sighed from his place behind his hotel door, where he’d been for the past remaining fifteen minutes in his quest to drag Yuuri to the banquet. “Quit being so dramatic. I know it hasn’t been a great day, for all that you won’t tell me, but trust me when I say no one was on their phone.” Yuuri couldn’t help but feel a little guilt at his weary, tired tone, which drove in a whole new wave of self-hatred to mull over.

“Right. They were probably laughing. Who am I kidding?”

“Will you please come out? You have to keep your chin up, even if you didn’t do as well as you wished. Hiding in your room and acting all miserable won’t do you any favors. Plus, you might get a chance to see Victor again, and meet some of the other competitors. Making friends at these events can help make it slightly less scary in future competitions.”

Only silence and awkward shuffling could be heard.

“There’ll be plenty of alcohol.” Celestino finally relented, patience frailer than Yuuri’s self-esteem, voice timbered with exhaustion.

There was a distinct, miserable sigh muffled in the sheets.

“I’ll be in the lobby in five.”

Which was how Katsuki Yuuri found himself dressed in his old suit and tie (taking slight offence to the sour expression Celestino made when he caught sight of it; it was a perfectly respectable tie) and clutching his fourteenth glass of Champagne like it was a lovers hand as they stood atop the deck on the sinking Titanic. Yuuri was, in fact, on a sinking ship. And he was ok with it, as long as he didn’t have to remember the rest of the night.

He dazedly gazed at the growing pile of glasses by his side in the corner and wondered if it would hurt too much to have just one more.

He shrugged and grabbed another one, anyways.


	2. Planets Collide?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Or: An Old Man's Lament)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Victor. You and your old man pains. 
> 
> I'm trying my best to really do these characters the justice they deserve.
> 
> Enjoy!

Victor was kneeling over the toilet, neck straining and head splitting in half, cradled in his arms. The restrooms were mercifully peaceful; there must still be competitors on stage. 

Victor Nikiforov had just left the stage, most likely with his fifth consecutive Grand Prix Final title.

Now there was only Victor, hunched low amongst the stalls. 

Victor Nikiforov, Vitya. These were the names he suited himself in, zipped tight like a second skin, like his performance attire. They were finely tailored to his form, a perfect accessory to his image, one he had spent twenty years crafting with the fervent love of any dedicated craftsman. Was twenty years too long, or was it not enough?

Victor went both ways. But nearly more often than not, he felt stretched thin over so many years, felt transparent now, like saran wrap. How much of his own life did he actually own, and how much of it was copyrighted by the news media? 

But it was also the only way he knew how to live; twenty years of religious practice and competition, twenty years of cameras pointed at his face. 

Younger Victor Nikiforov burned passion like fuel, liked the vibrant auras that danced as he played, liked the attention because playing the piano was all he wanted to do, watching the audience become enthralled by the emotions he compelled in his playing. 

Older Victor felt trapped by his younger, more exuberant self; the world around him had evolved, but he was still glued fast to the expectation that he should always exceed expectations, the expectation he had put on himself. 

Victor was not so sure as to who he should be; the distance between whoever he was now and Victor Nikiforov, the world class professional musician, had never seemed so apparent. 

The throbbing had just started to recede like the low tide in St. Petersburg's coast, when-

BANG. 

Victor groaned both in preparation for the rather epic and tortuous conversation (smack-down) he was about to have, and wistfulness for the quiet that so steadily drained from his grasp.

BANG. BANG.

“Oi! Cтарик. Old man, don’t make me come in there and drag you out here by your hair! God knows you’re bald enough already. Yakov’s gripping, again. I’m not your fucking babysitter, why don’t you take some responsibility?” 

To be honest, it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. 

BANG. 

Victors headache gave a mighty throb.

He sighed and struggled to his feet, slipping his medication into the bag laying discarded next to him, and stepped out of the solitude of the stall. He made his way to the mirror, drawn in by his sickly complexion.

It was often remarked how his intensified perception of auras was his greatest strength. Which was absolutely true; his abnormality gave him deeper insight into the emotions around him, allowed him to better tune his music to the audience’s collective mood, allowed himself a deeper, more complex understanding of the music he performed. 

Instead of the general aura, he could see all of the variance and layered colors beneath the surface. This was just as important as the technical aspects he reworked over and over until near perfection; this was the key to his performance capabilities, the key to his image, Victor Nikiforov.

But, Victor, untangling himself from the cameras and eyes that cling to him like Makkachin’s fleas, knows better than anyone that it is just as much his curse. Migraines, debilitating ones, were the inevitable price. 

There were times where, after a performance or any event that sustained longer than a couple of hours, he laid heavy like a corpse on his bed or over the toilet, the pain taking an axe to his head for hours on end, sometimes writhing in pain, sometimes statue still. 

His life did not allow for long extents of recovery; it was always practicing, or meet and greets with fans, or performances, or sponsors, or interviews. It was always people. And people meant auras. 

And auras meant migraines.

BANG.

“That’s it! I’m coming in-”

Yuri Pliesetsky fell through the door as Victor opened it, standing with an amused smile that twisted at the ends in pain as Yuri clambered up to his feet and stalked to him with a growl.

“Yuri! Wow, aren’t you all grown up, breaking down doors like I broke records at the Worlds! Have you come to rescue me?” Victor’s smile was all sweet innocence, although it did not appear to fool Yuri, who spluttered with his usual rage.

“What the hell is even your problem, Old man? At least I don’t already look fifty years old. By the way, your performance was terrible, you look like shit, and you should just retire already before I kick your ancient ass next year in seniors.” Yuri listed off the usual criticisms with renewed vigor, arms crossed and body all sharp angles. 

“Oh! You wound me! My sweet Yuri has become such a nasty little teenager. By the way, your technique was sloppy from measures 47 through 124, and your cadence at the key change into B major was hardly emotionally provoking-”

“Save it for the judges sheets, old man. I already won, so what’s the big deal, anyways?” Yuri said, with an especially dramatic flip of his chin length hair. Victor’s smile turned fond; Yuri Pliesetsky very much reminded him of his younger, just as eager and arrogant, self. 

“Well, hardly any mucisian in the senior division will have such obviously inconsistent tempo as you do, Yura! You have a lot to work on if you want to compete with the grown ups.” He ignored the indignant spluttering behind him and the insistent throb of his head on the way to the exit.

“We should find Yakov! I bet he’s missed us.” And with a wink, he strolled out of the privacy of the bathroom and into the oppressive and tense atmosphere of the auditorium. 

“No shit, idiot. Why do you think I’m here? He won’t shut up.” 

~~~

Yakov did, in fact, miss them. Just not the nice, thoughtful kind of miss, like yearning, and more like the ‘I will hunt you down and lock you in your practice room for a week’ kind of miss. It was sweet of him, anyway, at least in Yakov terms.

“Vitya! Where were you, you empty headed fool? Did you think you could just waltz out of a performance like that without me hunting you down! Attrotcious! Terrible! I need earplugs, or maybe that Insta-дерьмо you buffoons like to scroll on when you think I’m not listening, Yura, just to have on hand in case I ever have to hear a performance like that again! That legato passage from-” And so on. And so on. Victor, in times like these, liked to just watch the passerbyers walk around him, making up stories behind their flashing emotions. 

Victor knew Yakov too well; even if he didn’t have his ability, his pride and praise were evident, especially so in his royal purple aura. 

His eyes just so happened to stumble across a young man, early twenties, in his peripheral. 

He looked distinctly familiar; asian features, pale skin, glasses (glasses?), large, doey, mahogany eyes...oh!

His squint popped into a pleasantly smile. Yuuri Katsuki. How could he forget?

He looked so different when he wasn’t performing; hair flattened into his eyes, darker clothing, glasses, more somber.

And, amazingly enough, his aura was...muted? Not absent, but simply soft yet determined in it’s quiet brilliance. It was like fresh air compared to the brashness around him. 

Their eyes met from across two completely different universes, like a brief synch in orbit between two planets. 

Victor beamed. “Commemerative photo?” 

And Victor watched the uncertain hope fade steadily into misery; he closed off, defeated, almost. Victor could relate.

Victor was also at a loss. What had he done? Katsuki had done well to get this far in such a prestigious competition. He had the huge potential for greatness; his musicality was exceptional. He had only figured he might want a memento to remember such an accomplishment.

But Katsuki was already turning away, and Yakov was already pushing him towards the press conference with gentle hands and harsh words. There was nothing he could do, now. 

“-and remember, Vitya, to be on time. Can you do that for me?” Yakov rounded on Victor, one meaty finger dangerously close to stabbing his left eye.

“What?” Victor said, confused, expression innocent and charming, he hoped. He had been, admittedly, not paying too much attention.

“The banquet, Vitya! The banquet! You WILL be on time, or you AND Yura will be sent to Lillia to write a ten paged essay on the musical theory and history of BOTH of your pieces! Do you understand?”

“Hey! That’s not fair. He’s the idiot!” Yuri said, practically frothing at the mouth. Neither Yakov or Victor paid him any mind. 

Victor smiled. “Silly, Yakov. When have I ever been late?” 

He ignored the rampage subsequently set loose by his cheekiness, and walked confidently towards the swirling mass of color and flashing lights. 

Ah, the banquet. He really considered to ditch, but ultimately, came to the conclusion that he would attend, simply because he did not feel like writing a third essay on the musical theory and history of both of his pieces. There are only so many ways you can write about the Golden Ratio, after all.

Banquets were usually dull affairs.

Maybe this one would be different.


	3. Love's Sorrow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Phichit gets what's coming to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> It is unfortunate how easy it is to write Yuuri's character. His skating career has eerily followed my career as a musician. 
> 
> Enjoy. Comments and feedback are appreciated!

Nightmares twisted and evolved into crooked mouthed monsters that whispered truth after undeniable truth, stalking him, until they eventually waned into the nightmare of morning. 

Typically, morning would actually mean mid-afternoon, but, unfortunately, another nightmare by the name of Phichit Chulanont, rather than nicely and thoughtfully ‘wane’ into his existence, proceeded to barge into his room. 

Feeling nasty, Yuuri yanked the comforter over his head after a rather delightful hiss.

“Oh, good morning to you too, Yuuri! I made waffles.” And, in a move both suicidal and impish, he grabbed the edge of his blankets and pulled like he was trying to drag Yuuri from a bowl of Katsudon. Which said many things about Phichit: one, he must be very suicidal, and two, he’s had practice. Yuuri’s sister, Mari, is the only other person on this planet who would dare.

On the other hand, it definitely smelled like Phichit made waffles. 

Judging by the intense, thick smoke wafting in from the kitchen, Phichit made a mess, actually. 

In fact, Yuuri threw off the covers in alarm.

“Phichit. Why aren’t the fire alarms going off? What did you even do?” 

“Oh, fire alarms? I disabled those a while ago.”

“Phichit!” 

“Don’t worry! My hamsters are emergency trained. Say ‘waffles’!” Phichit whipped out his phone, and took a selfie, Yuuri lurking rather murderously in the background. But no amount of distraction selfies could fool Yuuri.

“Phichit, no. You will return my fire alarms to full working capacity before the sun sets, or one of your hamsters gets a date with the toilet.” Phichit pouted, and narrowed his eyes at Yuuri.

“Fine, you’re no fun. But...well, how are you, Yuuri?” The question was Phichits obvious way of trying to be tastefully subtle. Yuuri wished he wouldn’t ask. In fact, if Yuuri was making wishes, put ‘I wish I didn’t blow my senior debut’ at the top of the list. Wouldn’t that be nice.

“I’m pissed off, actually. I was sleeping, and I’m cold. Give me those back.” Yuuri gestured from his fetal position on the bed towards the bundle of warm, comforting blankets bunched in Phichits grasp. Phichit made a contemplative face, eyes passing gravely from Yuuri to the blankets.

“No. I don’t think I will. You have to get up, Yuuri. You’ve been like this for five months. And, I… hrm, mmh, I might’ve signedyouupforamastersclassinlikeonehour. So you can’t! I mean, go back to sleep. Yeah.” Phichit inched away like the little wretch he was, because he did what?

“Excuse me. I don’t think I heard that correctly. Tell me again?” Yuuri really did not do mornings.

“Hmmm. Well, I thought it might be good to, you know, get some fresh air? So. I sort of said that you would give a Masterclass at DU for the undergraduates? In one hour?”

Long, long, blissful, deadly silence answered Phichit’s rhetorical questions beautifully and simply. Sometimes, Yuuri found, it was best to scare Phichit with silence. Allowing Phichit to talk himself into his early grave was quite effective, and Yuuri liked to think he was a terrifying morning person. Especially one with not much else to lose.

There was a reason his practice schedule was from one thirty in the afternoon to eleven at night. 

There was, in fact, a reason that a large sign hanging on his door read: ‘do not disturb from twelve am to twelve pm.’

Yuuri narrowed his eyes, and Phichit fled. He escaped imminent danger with his victory, but he would not remain unscathed. He already had two drafts and a backup plan for revenge. 

And, well. Phichit had it coming.  
~~~

The wind ripped its fingernails down the sides of Yuuri’s face as he coasted down the sidewalk on his bicycle, the chill infecting his body and thoughts with ease, mingling with the cruel deprecation his mind provided him. 

Yuuri tried. He tried to stop thinking about Sochi, he tried to, but it was about as hopeless as his crush on Victor Nikiforov, who didn’t even recognize him, who thought he was some faceless, nameless fan who wanted an autograph. Although, he was, wasn’t he? 

He was a dime a dozen pianist who, with a stroke of luck, made it to a competition he didn’t deserve to make. He was faceless, nameless, to Victor Nikiforov. A joke. 

Who was about to attempt to teach a class of unimpressed, prodigy undergraduates. 

Yuuri groaned as the embarrassment pulled him into it’s familiar orbit. He didn’t want fresh air. He didn’t know what he wanted, except maybe to win the Grand Prix Final. 

He wanted-

Vichann. 

More than anything, he wanted to escape himself and the way his own words itched under his skin like eczema far worse than anything any tabloid could write, the way he couldn’t stop thinking about everything he’d done wrong, and everything he could’ve done differently.

He wanted to prove himself, he wanted to play on the same stage as Victor Nikiforov at least one more time. 

He wanted to be able to perform without anxiety threatening his body and mind with its dirty tricks and truth embedded lies and promises, to show what music meant to him.

But the things Yuuri wanted were impossible to achieve. There was no remedy for the past, and there was no remedy for himself. 

He knew Celestino, for all of his excellent teaching and long history of performance, didn’t understand the limits which bound Yuuri. He could comprehend healthy nervousness, technical faults, and issues with musicality and audience connection, but he could not understand how something as flimsy and trivial as words so terribly hindered his playing.

Yuuri, too, did not understand.  
He knew he was the only one of Celestino's students who suffered this stifling and withering anxiety that grew like weeds in his mind and stole the oxygen in his lungs as his hands hovered over a piano. This was only one of the ways in which he was isolated.

He never fit in to begin with; there was a whole other world of color and enrichment to the world and its people around him, and he couldn’t even see it. He was always at Minako-sensei’s studio, hardly with any friends except Yuko and Takashi (although, not Takashi at first). He had wandered school like glorified wallpaper on legs, not paid a single thought except the occasional whisper about his curious defect. His family, while supporters of his endeavors with finance despite the volatile nature of their inn’s income and providers of ample moral support, didn’t understand his passion or his long hours spent locked away in a room with a piano. His scholarships for Detroit University lured him in and spat him out halfway across the world as a foreign exchange student with little knowledge of english. 

Being independent, being isolated, this is what Yuuri knew. 

Even his friendship with Phichit stopped just outside of an invisible boundary of Yuuri’s own making that, despite Phichit’s amiable nature and valiant determination, he never encroached. There was a disconnect in understanding that Yuuri or Phichit never felt the urgency to fix, because neither of them had any capacity to.

Yuuri was used to and comfortable in isolation, sunk into it like a lonely, warm bath, but Phichit could only ever understand the company of words and conversation, which he sought to fight his loneliness. This is what they both knew, respected, of each other; but understanding is much more difficult. 

But, Phichit was always there, even if he didn’t always understand.

Around the time Yuuri made it on campus, the sun was already safely nestled amongst white cotton clouds that cradled and caressed its gentle rays, high in the sky. The sprawling neatly trimmed glass and smattering of buildings ahead sent him disorientedly backwards in time through the portal of nostalgia, and Yuuri almost forgot everything before he remembered. 

His college days, while they had the unpredictable variable of Phichit, remained somewhat the same as high school, except for his stress level, which had climbed so successfully that Yuuri thought he should get a special award for that. Professional musicians don’t exactly make bank.

Unless you’re Victor Nikiforov. 

Yuuri made his way around the side of the music building, leaving his bike against the hidden section of wall he had reserved since his time studying there, and walked into campus, visitor badge slapped hastily on his sweater thanks to Phichits short notice. 

The hallways were lined with awards and certificates and viola jokes, because musicians were predictable pricks, photos of past choirs and orchestras and bands hung well acquainted with the dust in the air, and the sounds of music flowed from behind various doors like siren songs.

The familiarity of the lacquered floors, scuffled partially by his own ratty shoes, jarred him and filled him with longing for an easier time, for his mom and father and sister and Minako-sensei, who understood him more than anyone else in the world. 

He stopped outside of one of the assembly rooms, hearing the muffled sound of impatient chattering. These were not the people he usually taught. He usually did Masterclasses with teenagers or young kids, people who wouldn’t think of his very existence as some sort of challenge, people who didn’t have too much knowledge or experience to judge his lackluster abilities. 

But despite his reluctance, Celestino’s words resonated. If there was one thing Celestino truly understood about his student, it was that Yuuri’s pride was just as large as his self-hatred. 

“Keep your chin up.” 

He could very well call in sick or present any other number of excuses, but that would inevitably present him as weaker than he already appeared.

Yuuri supposed there was only one direction he could take; forward.

He inhaled through his nose, and swung the door open.

“Minako-sensei! Hello? Are you home?” Yuuri, his eleventh birthday just around the corner, peered through the windows of Minako-sensei’s studio with impatient anticipation. He could just imagine the feeling of Mozart under his fingertips, and his feverish excitement festered as he dreamed the ease at which he would play, the dance of the keys, and the emotions he could evoke. 

If Minako-sensei ever showed up, that is.

“Yuuri! I might as well give you my keys if you’re going to be here all the time. Since you’re so excited, why don’t you go play me some scales?” Her fond smile softened the bite of her words, and she ruffled his hair, which resembled a nest of raven feathers. They walked inside of Yuuri’s second home, following the lacquered wood floors all the way down a hall cluttered with photos and memories towards her music room. Pushing open the door, Yuuri skipped over to the piano, sitting eagerly on the soft cushion, before catching sight of Minako-sensei’s snicker.

Yuuri groaned. “Yes, Minako-sensei. Which ones?”

“Broken triads in C# major and Eb minor. Then do a three octave chromatic scale, tempo allegro moderato. Every pitch you get wrong is the name of the scale you will do afterwards. Chop chop.”

This was met with Yuuri’s facepalm against the piano, the loud crash echoed across the otherwise empty studio.

“Wow, Yuuri. That’s a lot of wrong notes. You better get started with those scales, those fingers aren’t going to warm themselves up! Otherwise, you’re going to be here until dark.”

Yuuri’s cry of despair went unattended. 

“Minako-sensei...what if I can’t do it? I already get so nervous in front of you, how can I perform in front of all those people?” Yuuri’s voice poked out from where his face was buried in his music as a result of his dramatics. Minako-sensei looked thoughtful for a moment, her shrewdness so distinct from her usual sarcasm and impishness. 

“Well, kiddo, for starters, an elementary school talent show is hardly something to freak out about. You can play Twelve Variations of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star like you can spell the word stupid.” 

“That doesn’t help at all, Minako-sensei! I’ll look stupid if I perform.” Yuuri shoved his glasses up his nose with disdain, voice soft with a child's vulnerability, even with his defenses staunchly staged. 

Minako-sensei sighed.

“Yuuri, do you know why I teach you, instead of touring the world performing?” Yuuri shook his head in curiosity. 

“Because performing is scary as shit. Er, don’t go repeating that word, Yuuri, your mom will hunt me down. Anyways, performing is terrifying. There was a time when I performed in operas in Sydney and played violin concertos in Carnegie Hall. But as wonderful as all that was, I was always waiting for the next big failure, I was always drinking to forget how easily I broke down, slowly destroying myself. No one understood it, not even me, so I left. I stopped because I couldn’t handle the pressure anymore.You have to be better than that, Yuuri. You belong out there, giving the world your soul. You’re just as good as any Victor Nikiforov, maybe better, but in order to get to where you want to go, you’re going to have to suffer, and you’re going to have to be uncomfortable. Because that’s in the job description. Because being an artist isn’t supposed to be easy. 

Are you up for the challenge, Yuuri?” Minako-sensei’s face was unreadable in the shadows that blossomed in the wake of the afternoon light. 

Yuuri’s face, usually sweet and soft and round, hardened with the squaring of his jaw. 

“Yes. I’m going to be like Victor. I’m going to give it all I’ve got, Minako-sensei! I won’t let you down.”

Minako-sensei chuckled with fondness, reaching over to once more rustle the locks of his hair.

“You couldn’t if you tried, squirt. Now. Let's get back to those scales, shall we? I believe you have a lot of them.”

“Minako-sensei, you were serious? That’s not even possible!”

“Oh, none of that nonsense. You won’t get far with that kind of thinking! Get on it before I get out the ruler!”

Yuuri played twenty-four three octave scales that night.

The chatter cut out like Yuuri had unplugged the audio jack. Wide eyes blinked at him from across the room. Yuuri felt the blush creep up his neck as his memories dissipated before him in the fluorescent lighting. 

“Come in, come in!” A man in his forties ushered him through the threshold, beaming at him with sincerity in his eagerness. “I’m Professor Ratledge, and I work here as an organizer for the piano performance study program here at DU. I missed you by a year, which is unfortunate, because I always hear so much about you! Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Yuuri wondered if he could pay someone to lock Phichit out of his Instagram account. 

“Um, hello! I’m Yuuri Katsuki. I’m from Japan, and I play professionally.”

The class murmured back greetings. 

It was during times like these that he wished he could see auras, and not the blank unreadable walls before him. He didn’t have a clue how to approach this lesson. Fortunately, or, unfortunately, Professor Ratledge had some idea.

“Now, part of learning is listening. It’s one thing to know what a smooth, evenly distributed legato phrase is, and another thing to hear it. So, Mr. Katsuki, would you mind playing something for us today? Anything is fine.” 

There it was. 

Yuuri’s stomach dropped as his heart leapt to his throat, and felt the way they were tearing him apart with knowing terror. The most recent piece he’d performed had been his biggest failure. It turned out Yuuri was not escaping today with his pride intact, afterall. He took in a slow breath, and gave the Professor a weak smile. 

“Ok. Um, well, I’ve been working on something, so. Just watch.” Yuuri walked with the trepidation of someone approaching their greatest nightmare, but also their most beloved dream; tenderly, but firmly, as though trying to tame it. 

The cushion was soft, the piano brand the same as the one in Minako-sensei’s studio; Shigeru Kawai. He meditated for a moment, imagining himself back in his early mentor’s studio, trying to calm the rapid feeling of his pulse.

There was a brief moment, when the entire room held its breath.

Yuuri began to play.

There was unrestrainable sorrow and anguish sustained with every note that his hands graced; he had never understood it before, the lament of lost love, but he felt as though he might now.

Oh, that was supposed to be C#.

Nothing could beat the original performance, and everyone in this room must know it, but Yuuri didn’t care. This song took flight under its new meaning, evolved, like music was born to do. He released every phrase like a dove, imaging Minako-sensei at his side, her shrewd eyes dissecting everything from his posture to his musicality, and imagined what she might say.

“You call that evenly distributed? You look like you’re trying to swat a fly. Be more presumptive on your release of the pedal, Yuuri, those phrases are muddy.”

Yuuri smiled. His glasses were already slipping down his nose, but he paid them no mind. 

Every part of him, mind and body and soul, worked frantically on delivering every person in the room a moment to ruminate on, a performance worthy of enjoyment. 

“Your job, Yuuri? It’s not just about you, it’s about the music. Give them something to remember. You want to know how Nikiforov does it? He performs so fantastically, with such dedication to the music and the audience, with such fantastic musicality, that every mistake is forgotten before the pen can hit paper. Make them forget.” 

Liebesleid by Kreisler; Victor Nikiforov’s record shattering piece for this year's Grand Prix Final, arranged by the man himself. Ever since he heard it in person, Yuuri had ached to play it, especially after his terrible debut. Wallowing in self-pity got boring after a while, and what better way to regain his inspiration than to follow in Victor’s footsteps, like so many times before?

All I need is Yuko besides me, and then it would truly be like before. Yuuri thought of his bright eyed friend dashing into Minako-sensei’s studio, Takeshi trailing not far behind. 

“C’mon, Yuuri! Victor just learned Consolation No. 3! We have to start practicing if we’re going to play it like him.”

Yuuri took in the sight of his friends with an unfamiliar feeling of contentment and happiness, which hatched in his ribcage like a baby bird, and chirped warmly in his chest.

Home. Yuuri’s revelation lingered with the final notes of the piece. I want to go home.

Yuuri released the pedal, and looked up. 

A room full of silence met his gaze, and only after the tell tale sound of the pedal being released did they resume their fidgeting. Professor Ratledge enthusiastically applauded, followed along by the rest of the class, all looking very bewildered. Only then did the embarrassment hit Yuuri.

I’m a total idiot! I just tried to perform Victor Nikiforov’s arrangement of his Grand Prix Final finale piece. What was I thinking? 

Yuuri didn’t have much longer to despair, before the Professor interrupted.

“Kreisler's Liebesleid, arrangement Victor Nikiforov. Fantastic! No words! I’m presuming you know the translation of Liebesleid?”

“Er, thank you, Professor,” he bowed slightly. “It means Love’s Sorrow.” The professor beamed.

“Yes; a very emotional piece, for sure. Well, having you here is certainly not any sorrow! Now that we’ve all listened to Mr. Katsuki’s performance, who would like to perform something for him?” 

Even crickets could not be heard. 

“How about you, Sal? You showed me this morning a little something you were working on. This is a great opportunity to get some feedback.”

Yuuri smiled nervously at Sal, and rose from the bench, gesturing. 

“Go ahead! I’m not going to whack you with a ruler or anything.” He nodded like he couldn’t believe if Yuuri was real or not.

For the first time in three weeks, Yuuri forgot.

~~~

Well, at least until the Masterclass was over.

But, he supposed Phichit’s unwelcomed shove had helped; afterall, Yuuri knew now what he had to do. 

His feet had long since memorized the way to Celestino’s office, even after the absence.

He stopped at the door, unsure of what to say, before knocking. He needed to say something; leaving without a word would be unfair to his long term mentor.

The door opened, and Celestino’s surprise gave way to a smile. He studied Yuuri’s determined expression and nodded. 

“Celestino, I-”

“You’ve outgrown me. You do what you need to do, Yuuri. Just know that I’m proud of you, and if anything, I think this is just the end of your beginning.” He raised an eyebrow at Yuuri’s floundered expression. 

“Don’t look at me like that. Your emotions are a lot more obvious than you think. You were coming here to tell me you're leaving my studio.” Yuuri shuffled.

“You’ve been a great mentor, but, yes. I just miss home so much, and, well, coming here made me realize that I need a little time to pick myself up if I want to go back to competing. Thank you, Celestino.” Celestino held out his hand, and Yuuri met him, their handshake firm with respect and soft with gratitude. 

“See you around, Yuuri.”

“You too, Celestino.”

When Yuuri finally made his way back to his bike, the sun was on its descent, the afternoon heat creeping up his neck. He pulled out his phone, finger hovering over the screen.

He pressed call, and listened to the dial tone blend with the hustle of the city around him, before the ringing stopped, giving way to shuffling and a familiar voice speaking his name like a question.

“Okasan? I’m coming home.”  
~~~

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Yuuri. You always have a place with me, and Celestino, I’m sure.” Phichit was visibly upset at Yuuri’s departure, but understanding resonated in his brown eyes. 

“It’s about time I go back to Thailand, anyways. But you better facetime me every day, or I’ll sneak into your house and disable all your fire alarms!”

Yuuri laughed for about one second, before-

“Wait. You did fix them before you gave the landlord the keys, right?” Phichit turned slightly pale.

“Run.”

Phichit bolted as Yuuri snickered.

He had already fixed them. Revenge was sweet. 

“Bye, Phichit!” Yuuri watched fondly at Phichit’s frantic scrambling out the doors to the airport.

Chuckling, Yuuri turned on airplane mode. In about fourteen hours, Yuuri would be in Japan.

In about fourteen hours, all hell would break loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (No hamsters were harmed in the making of this chapter)


	4. Rebirth: Banquets, Scales, and Other Chores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Victor's helpless pinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Sorry I posted a little later than usual; my family and I were visiting my Aunt's house.
> 
> In other notes, I changed a small detail in the last chapter for continuity. Originally, Phichit implied that Yuuri had been back from the Grand Prix Final for three weeks before Phichit signed him up for the Masterclass, but that's been changed to five months.
> 
> Hope you like it!

Stiff collars, politely bored expressions, rolled up sleeves and shifting to hide aching feet; these were essential to the trademark Grand Prix Final experience. Victor had long ago memorized this tune like his scales; they were essential, second nature, easy, but did not bring him the passion that music did. Banquets and scales and people were the chores that kept him company.

But Victor was hardly going to stand there like a trophy; there were better things to do. At these dreary events, he found that the company of Christopher Giacometti helped to liven the atmosphere. Friends was a strong word for their relationship, but suitable nonetheless. They were connected over alcohol, boredom, and friendly competitive spirit at banquets and competitions. There was the occasional text conversation and they followed each other on Instagram, there was respect, but most importantly for both of them, there was convenience. 

So, Chris hunting commenced as soon as Victor arrived in his usual fashionably late manner. And alcohol hunting. And anything that could stave off the general apathy Victor felt entombed within. 

Chris was never hard to find; all you had to do was look for the life of the party, and he was right in the middle of it. 

His journey to the center of what he considered at first to be a rather tame party was met with a sight that, in all his years of attending banquets and all kinds of high-end, connection building events, he had never expected to see.

And he was all about subverting expectations.

Pushing past a large circle of other, rather excited looking musicians and scandalized sponsors, Victor emerged into the midst of a dance-off. 

Between Yuuri Katsuki and his very own Yura. 

Never had Victor's expectations been so utterly thwarted in his life; straightlaced, shy Yuuri Katsuki was breakdancing in a dance off with angry, ‘everything's lame’ Yura. 

Victor was delighted.

“Well, isn’t that a sinfully delicious sight? Katsuki’s got moves, and legs, for days.”

Victor laughed. Chris’s priorities were always in order. 

“Isn’t it amazing? I never thought I’d see this day.”

“The day when - wow, he’s flexible - what? You get to watch as partly undressed Yuuri does the splits?” Chris snickered at Yuras floundering attempts to beat Katsuki, nudging Victor with his elbow with suggestive eyebrows.

“Yes! And look- look at Yakov’s face! He’s in hysterics! Judging by the look of that aura, Yura will never leave Lilias office again.” Victor was quickly distracted from whatever future punishment Yakov was concocting when Yura stormed off after a rather humiliating defeat, and Yuuri subsequently stumbled to his feet, arms extended in victory, taking another chute of champagne, which he promptly downed in one go. Some of it spilled over his lips and down his neck, staining his already rumpled shirt. Victor watched as his Adams apple bobbed with every gulp. 

“Now, now. Do you think I could get him to pole dance? Victor?”

Victor had already left, making his way across the room to Yuuri with cerulean blue eyes locked in on his target, and, ridiculously enough, there was a gentle flutter in his stomach, which migrated to his pulse. Both Victor and Victor Nikiforov had long ago sealed their nerves shut in the iron of their will; it was necessary, in order to be the best. Never had he imagined that this feeling would excite him, elicit something. 

Yuuri must’ve consumed a lot of champagne, from the way he stumbled around, aura flickering between a dark, unhappy blue to an exuberant yellow. He must still have had some cognisant ability, though, because once he caught sight of Victor's approach, he stumbled to meet him, brown eyes wide and blush deep, his aura turning bright pink in a perfect imitation.

“Vichann! Victor!” Victor flushed as Yuuri grabbed his arms for support, his grip firm as he met his gaze. 

“Yuuri! How-” 

“Let’s dance. Victor, let’s dance!” Victor, who had suffered Lilia’s dancing lessons since he’d first come into Yakov’s care at seven years old as a ‘lesson in how dance builds a better understanding of the body, mind, soul, and music itself’, felt utterly inadequate compared to this magnificent force of nature, who moved with the hunger of fire, the lightness of air, the gravity of earth, and the fluidity of water, a master of his elements. 

He was undeniably beautiful; his eyes focused and playful as he dipped Victor, strength built compactly in his lithe frame, and lips parted as he dragged Victor up, mercifully, before spinning him once more into a descent to madness. He did not know if his dizziness was from being thrown about the banquet, the sight before him, or the alcohol. Chris was right about most things, Victor thought, as Victor dipped him in turn, Yuuri’s leg raised. As Yuuri smiled up at him, Victor forgot about Victor Nikiforov and all the stones that dragged at his feet. 

When Victor released him, Victor knew that like all things as lovely as him, he would not return so easily. If Lilia taught him anything, it was to identify expression in body language, and Yuuri was dancing for freedom, not for Victor to steal him away. 

Victor wondered from where Yuuri longed to escape, and if maybe Yuuri could bring him along. 

For the rest of the banquet, Victor was content with remaining on the side lines and sipping on an overly indulgent amount of alcohol, if it meant he could watch Yuuri dance the room into his thrall, aura a gentle kaleidoscope of joy layered in between darkness too buried to decipher in the haze. 

Chris found him much later, eyes still stuck on Yuuri like they’d been from the first time he’d seen him. He must’ve looked pretty pathetic. Chris patted him on the back and extracted Victor’s eighth glass of champagne with a sigh.

“You’ve been standing here for an hour, mon cheri. If you like him that much, just give him your phone number.” Victor nodded dumbly, reaching for another glass when one of the violinists from the duet competition Yuuri had whisked away into another dance placed his hands on Yuuri’s waist. 

“God, you’re so gross, old man. You couldn’t find a better ass than the piggy’s to stare at?” Yura burst into the conversation with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, as usual. Chris took his leave, a thoughtful expression on his face, and aura brewing a tumultuous and mischievous orangish yellow, which Victor realised, half-heartedly, meant that he was probably scheming. 

Victor hummed. “Yakov’s going to make you do ‘behavior correcting exercises’ for your little dance off against Yuuri. Who knew little Yura could cry! I know I would if I lost like that.” 

“I did not cry! At least I’m not simpering after a piggy, old man.” Victor took another sip.

Before spitting it out all over Yura. 

“Bozhe moy, is he pole dancing?” Yuras hissing went ignored as Victor rushed to get a better look. 

“What the hell is wrong with you!”

~~~

“My family runs a hot spring in Hasetsu. You should come!” Yuuri slurred, his pants long since discarded from his rather phenomenal pole dancing display (where had he even learned that?), and tie wrapped like a bandana around his forehead. Maybe it was how ridiculous he looked, or how beautifully he moved, or even the fact that he could pole dance, but Victor was utterly endeared. 

“Be my piano instructor, Victor~!” 

Yuuri never failed to surprise him.

~~~

Victor’s life reverted back to a long list of chores after the banquet. In fact, the banquet made everything worse, because now that he’d had a taste of the life Yuuri Katsuki brought him, nothing could taste as sweet. There were only ashes from where the phoenix had taken flight.

Ashes everywhere; in his coffee, in his dreams, even in the auras around him, their color duller, like a block of cement bashing against his head instead of the usual sharp stabbing. His migraines increased. 

But Worlds did not slow its approach, and Victor was at a loss. 

“No! No! Throw yourself away! You surprise people, this is what you do, yes? Then throw yourself away. Your past self is dead! People who can be reborn as many times as necessary are the strong ones.” Yuri looked far too smug in the corner of Victor’s practice room for someone who would likely suffer this same speech tomorrow, but Victor did not engage; he reached, once more, into her words. Many times he had heard them, and many times he had felt like he was blindly reaching for some epiphany in the dark.

“Like a phoenix, rise from your ashes!” 

He thought of Yuuri and his perfect storm, his whirlwind whisking Victor away to Oz only to drop a house on him, leaving him alone in the wreckage of a strangely wonderful and terrible world. No text, call, Instagram message, or Twitter DM. Radio silence. 

Yuuri Katsuki and young Victor Nikiforov understood what it meant to be a phoenix, how to evolve and burn the cages that held them. Victor thought, once, that he knew, but that key had long since been disfigured and rusted. 

What did Lilia mean, throw yourself away? How did that translate to playing piano? He felt as though he were missing some crucial detail, but he didn’t know where to search. 

“Stop!” Victor did not need to hear the order again; he’d written plenty of essays because of Lilia’s ‘I say so only once’ policy. 

“No. This is no good. Your body is all wrong. No passion, no sorrow, no anger, no nothing! You must move your body. Have I taught you nothing for twenty years? Your fingers cannot do all the dancing. The audience is not looking at them, they are looking at you! You put all of your expression in your playing but none in your body. Try again!”

That day of practice, needless to say, was fruitless. Victor felt irate at himself and Lilia and Yuri, who were baffled at Victor's listlessness. This depletion of inspiration should have been foreseeable, avoidable, but youth brought with it an illusion of immortality. He went home to Makkachin, impatience and restlessness turning the air around him black like spilled ink or rotten fruit. 

He lay on his couch, scrolling through youtube videos of Yuuri’s performances, trying to piece together the puzzle that was Yuuri Katsuki. Makkachin boofed and curled up at his side, nudging his hand in eagerness that wore down his defences. Sometimes, it felt like he was the one who’d been trained.

He cooed at her, ruffling her fur, and sunk into his thoughts as he listened to Yuuri’s rendition of Liebestraum No. 3 by Liszt. The technique was obviously brilliant enough to be in the Grand Prix Final, but was considerably lacking compared to the sheer grace and emotion he presented on stage.

He watched multiple videos of various performances of the same piece, amazed at the fact that there was almost choreography to the way his face changed expression with the music, his body hunching in close to the piano during the soft sections and arching backwards as he crescendoed, or even the fluidity at which he moved, which changed from willowy during longer phrased, legato passages, and harsh during the brash, staccato ones. He was the entire ballet; the prima ballerina and the orchestra. And he didn’t so much as leave that bench.

Victor fell asleep a little ways before midnight, phone slipping from his hand, and Makkachin nestled in his side like a large, hairy heating pad.  
When his phone alarm jolted him off the couch, he thought of Yuuri as he woke up. 

He knew what he needed to do. 

Yuuri’s music was his way of communication to the audience, his way of conveying his emotions. It was time for Victor to reach out, and what better way than in his upcoming performance of Love’s Sorrow at World’s next month? 

If Yuuri didn’t respond, then Victor would find a way to move on. But he could not continue on buried in his ashes; he must throw himself away, and let the Phoenix be born. For Yuuri, if he wanted it.

~~~

Victor held his hands over the piano, audience silent in anticipation. Would Victor Nikiforov do it again? Victor paid them no mind; he focused his center on Yuuri, and flew on his last breath as Victor Nikiforov, letting his hands take to the piano like wings.

He imagined the notes as him and Yuuri, dancing together and being torn apart, and called out.

He thought about shy Yuuri and drunk Yuuri; who was the real Yuuri? Which version of himself was the fraud, the Victor Nikiforov? Or were they both a part of him? Victor suddenly wondered if Yuuri liked dogs. What was his favorite food? Did he have siblings? One question after another swarmed him like flies. Did Yuuri care? He had, after all, left him without a trace both before the banquet and after.

He recalled his easy confidence, and how he danced like he understood that Victor needed an escape just as much as himself, the way his eyes could catch the light and look like pots of perfectly sweet honey, and then hit the shadows, transforming into sultry black. 

Victor missed the way that Yuuri made his heart pump away the cobwebs in his ribcage, and the way that Yuuri could so easily throw himself away. Victor wondered if Yuuri would throw him away like that; maybe he already had.

Five months of sorrow squeezed into five minutes. 

Victor hardly noticed when they were over.

Yakov dragged him to the award ceremony and to another boring, Yuuri-less banquet; Yuuri had not advanced to World’s that year. Victor would have left if he hadn’t noticed the gray worry moving like restless clouds underneath the proud, yellow surface. 

Another world record and another gold medal used to mean something, but now they just served to remind him of his anticipation for a response, a sign. A sign that Victor meant something to Yuuri, too.

~~~

Minutes seemed like insurmountable mountains, hours came at a rate equivalent to Yura’s developing maturity, and days were in themselves eternities. 

Yakov said he was being dramatic and to stop giving Yura whining ideas. Victor conceded, but it did not change the fact that he had never felt so much anticipation in his life. 

He knew medals and awards and admiration; he did not know deep understanding and love, too busy being locked in a practice room for most of his life.

So, when the response came exactly at the time he least expected it, Victor couldn’t help but laugh. Yuuri had surprised him once more. 

The video was taken from a phone, and though the video and audio quality weren’t perfect, they more than accomplished their tasks. 

A nearly perfect copy of Victor’s arrangement of Love’s Sorrow. A better version, in Victor’s opinion, in regards to performance. Once more, the recurring theme of suffering technique surfaced.

Victor flushed at the passion in which Yuuri moved, stunned to see Yuuri’s trademark bodily choreography implemented in his own work. He watched the video once more, before the missing key slid neatly into place, and unlocked the doorway to a dangerous, wonderful idea.

“My parents run a hot spring in Hasetsu. You should come! 

Be my piano instructor, Victor!”

Yuuri was his missing puzzle piece.


	5. Snow in Spring and Other Unlikely Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Minako-sensei is sadistic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I've decided to upload every day except Sunday, just to have a recuperation day. This chapter would've come out sooner, but my arm strained from terrible posture, which delayed writing quite a bit, and a thunderstorm swept in and messed up the WiFi connection. 
> 
> But, this is the last chapter before they start interacting, and then the plot begins!
> 
> Thanks for reading! I appreciate the support I've been receiving for this story.

Yuuri kept his mask with him, always, even in Detroit, where there was no real purpose for one.

It was entirely habit from his time in Japan, although there were two reasons he wore it after that; one, because city air was generally a dumping ground for all kinds of lung-destroying fumes, and secondly, Yuuri found that the easiest way to blend in to any crowd was to pull the cotton over his nose and watch the eyes gloss over him like some sort of reasonably average house plant in the living room. This was a particularly desirable effect on his more moody days, a way to feel invisable from people when he needed space from expectations and attention. 

He pulled up his mask on his way from the exit of the airplane to baggage claim for another, more mortifying reason. 

Posters. Posters everywhere. Of him, Grand Prix Final moron, Yuuri Katsuki. Yuuri shivered as he remembered his encounter with Yuri Plisetsky, the Junior Grand Prix Final champion. 

But the angsty fifteen-year old was correct in his assesments, even if the delivery was harsh.

Yuuri was a moron, and he was walking around in small town Hasetsu, where everyone knew him. He tugged the mask up as high as it could possibly go without hindering his visibility. 

Which did nothing, since he’d grown up amongst people who had regularly seen him in a mask. 

“Hey, is that Yuuri?”

“Oh! Yuuri’s back!”  
“Didn’t he blow the Grand Prix Finals?”

Yuuri looked frantically for any exit, which happened to be an escalator that led directly to Minako-sensei, who was holding up a bright, eye catching banner, looking like a cat ready to pounce. 

“Yuuri~! Welcome back!” His dread and excitement were equally matched as Minako-sensei grabbed him and squeezed, ruffling his hair in affection while her hold tightened like a boa constrictor. 

“Look at all these nice fans! We’re going to say hello to all of them. If Victor Nikiforov does it, you can too.” 

Unfortunately for him, and everyone else, he was no Victor Nikiforov, and he was pretty sure these people weren’t actually his fans. If he had a choice, he would’ve left, too burned by his recent failure to suffer the humiliation of shaking hands with those who knew so intimately of his inadequacy. But, he suffered through Minako-sensei’s request, shaking practically every hand in the airport, sweating under her sharp, unrelenting gaze. Even after she had shooed him away from her studio, citing his need for more connections and performing experience that he couldn’t get in a small town by the sea, she still acted like his Instructor, and he still sought her guidance like her student. 

By the time he’d shaken enough hands for Minako-sensei’s sadistic sensibilities, Yuuri had reached his capacity for excitement and humiliation that day, and dashed for the exit. How did Victor do this so enthusiastically, again? Probably because he’d never had anything but praise attached to his name since his first world record. 

“So. Have you turned off airplane mode yet, or what?” It was her sly tone, more than anything else that made Yuuri stop in place, and whipping around and yanking down his mask. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Her eyebrow twitched, and she flashed her teeth.

“So you haven’t seen the video?” He felt his face become fixed, the dread twitching in his stomach, threatening to awaken in full vengeance. 

“What video? Minako-sensei?” His questions went unnoticed by her, who had burst into snickers at his predicament, whatever it was. 

“Turn off airplane mode. That’s about all I can say, Yuuri.”

He did exactly that. 

And nearly had a panic attack on the street, before Minako-sensei hauled him by the hood of his jacket into the bus that would take them into town. 

One of the college students he had taught in the Masterclass he’d attended before he made his decision to leave Detroit had recorded his performance of Victor’s arrangement of Love’s Sorrow, and it had gone viral.

“God, why?...I can never show my face again…”  
“Yuuri, stop mumbling. And whining. It wasn’t that bad. Probably embarassing because Victor Nikiforov has definately seen it, but. It could always be worse.”

Minako-sensei may as well have punched the final blow. He hadn’t even thought about that before, but now, he could feel the humiliation full force, bulldozing through his terror like paper. He was laid bare before the entire world, and the person who he idolized, at his weakest and most vulnerable, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. His eyes became suspiciously watery. Why did this day have to get even worse? Why couldn’t he have just soundly ignored Minako-sensei? He focused on the anger instead, anything to prevent the pity crying would elicit. 

“Oh, stop crying, Yuuri. What did I just say? It’s not the end of the world.” Yuuri spluttered.

“I wasn’t-”

“Your aura is practically sobbing, and I’ve known you since you popped out of your mother. I’ve wacked your hands enough to know when your about to cry; your puppy eyes aren’t the least bit subtle.” Minako-sensei pushed him into a seat and sat next to him. 

Yuuri felt taken aback. He didn’t have puppy eyes. 

Instead of prolonging the discussion about him, which he liked to avoid at all cost, he let her baiting remark remain untouched in the air between them. Minako-sensei had pushed him into a window seat, so he took advantage of the view to marinate in his prediciment. In the reflection, he saw her roll her eyes at his stubbornness, but she let him have his moment of brooding for the time being. 

Yuuri watched the colors blur past, familiar in their scheme, almost disconcertingly so. All he wanted was his bed, surrounded by posters of Victor Nikiforov, after his mother’s Katsudon and a long, bone settling soak in the hot springs. He let his thoughts of home overtake everything else with relief, resting his head against the window. 

When Minako-sensei woke him a little while later, they had arrived in Hasetsu. Her expression was pensive under the sun’s gentle dying light over the ocean’s hazy horizon, which was just as beautiful as when he’d looked as a child. Instead of the constant, plaguing curiosity about what might’ve lay in store for him beyond it’s edge, however, now he wondered what time had fashioned of his home. Yuuri followed her, trailing behind as he took in the strange blending of present and past; the Hasetsu of nostalgia and memory reinvisioned in some areas, but still standing monument to his past, and the Hasetsu of the foriegn present both stitched together into a mismatched patched quilt. Buildings he recalled booming with business were crumbling now, boarded up, and new ones had popped up in places where there had been stretches of trees. There were people he’d never seen before and those he’d known since he was a small child. Even the sidewalk in which his ratty shoes had, through many years of walking and jogging, worn his touch into the cement was replaced, fresh from any markings of Yuuri, nothing except posters and those who knew him to hold his memory in Hasetsu.

Yu-topia, however, was exactly as he remembered it, the windows glowing warmly like coals in an oven and Japanese style architecture calming in it’s familiarity. Once he stepped over the threshold, he heard the amiable chattering of guests, and, once Minako-sensei announced their arrival, the clatter of pots and pans as his mom rushed out of the kitchen to greet him, her large brown eyes pleased. 

“Yuuri! Welcome home! I’m sorry your Otosan and I couldn’t pick you up. We were busy with the inn.” Yuuri shuffled, shame creeping up his neck. 

“I’m sorry for not visiting. It’s been five years.” It suddenly occurred to him that he had been a terrible son; he had left, chasing after his dream on their rocky finances, leaving them to take care of the inn on their own, and hadn’t bothered to visit in five years. He bowed his head. Stupid.

“It’s ok! I’m only sorry I couldn’t it to your graduation. Never mind all that, you’re home now. Let’s get some food in you! My famous Katsudon’s on the menu tonight.”

Minako-sensei’s eyes, ever so astute, narrowed in like hawks towards Yuuri. He gulped.

“My, my, Yuuri. I wonder what’s under that coat?” She ripped off his puffy jacket, ignoring his useless attempts to escape her, revealing his new weight gain with her typical dramatics. He definitely gained weight during non-competition seasons, when being locked in his practice room no longer hindered his stress eating. He gained weight in general; his fluctuating weight was one of the many problems he had with his body. The already inflamed blush was sent to the tip of his ears, like someone had poured scalding coffee over his head.

“I want you at my studio tomorrow morning at seven. It’s not healthy to rot in a practice room all day, Yuuri, and besides, it’s about time you returned to your roots.” His mother grabbed his hand and firmly dragged him into the dining room to eat, Minako-sensei ignoring his whining.

Truth be told, Yuuri did want to go to her studio, again, and try to rediscover how to release the music from his body with dance, how to use the pain and strain of his muscles as a springboard for passion. He felt he needed the reminder after months of aimless practice and endless moping.

He remembered when Minako-sensei used to require him at her studio at seven am sharp despite his night owl tendencies. He and Vichann would race down the beach, his barking sharp and ecstatic, until they reached her studio, where they would spend the rest of daylight before walking back to Yu-topia under the fresh moonlight, worn out but content in each other’s companionship. 

Looking at his mother, he shuffled, sheepish.

“First, before I eat, can I say hi to Vichann?” Yuuri asked softly.

“Of course! Go ahead.”

He hesitantly entered the room that held Vichann’s shrine, that same shame from earlier like an unbearable itch underneath his skin. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently if he’d visited more often. He should’ve at least been there for him during the moments before his death, when he needed Yuuri, the little boy who used to run down beaches and feed ice cream to him in the summertime, the most. The pain, the loneliness; he must have suffered. He wondered if Vichann had thought Yuuri abandoned him. 

“Welcome back, little brother.”

Yuuri turned away from where he was kneeling before Vichann’s shrine, feeling slightly disoriented at the presence of his sister. Mari’s lips twitched, lighting a cigaret in typical brooding fashion.

“Internet sensation, huh? Think my big shot little brother could help out with the Inn?”

Her eyes were even more carefully gaurded than her words, but the question was clear to Yuuri, who had long been fluent in his sister’s barbed tests.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be staying. Until I can figure out what’s next, if I want to compete again. But I’m happy to help out, in any way I can.” She took a long drag off of her smoke, eyes carrying a similar spark to the one that glowed in the dim lighting. 

“We’ll support you, whatever you decide to do. Come eat.”

She left, and Yuuri followed; this was the nature of their relationship, even as kids. He had looked up to her and her resourcefulness and wisdom, even admired her rebelliousness, although he’d never been quite as problematic.

Dinner was delightfully nostalgic, the Katsudon filling his mouth with the taste of Hasetsu. After hugging his father, the rest of the meal was spent catching up under familiar lamp lighting and with glasses of Sake in hand (and plentiful teasing about his poor alcohol tolerance genetics).

By the time he retired to bed, he barely had time to refamiliarize himself with his posters before sinking weightlessly into dreamless sleep, troubles forgotten momentarily under heapings of Katsudon and after relentless scrubbing from the hot springs. 

He woke up to Minako-sensei breaking down his door. He knew it was her; the rest of his family had the decency to knock, and certainly not this early. She must not have trusted him to wake up early without assistance. He groaned into his pillow as she yelled something about five minutes. Yes. Five more minutes sounded nice…

It took Minako-sensei throwing water in his face to wake him up.

He chased her all the way to her studio, practically heaving by the time they reached her studio, Minako-sensei having successfully escaped Yuuri’s wrath. His warm up afterwards went similarly.

“Ugh. You call that flexible? We have work to do.”

Yuuri spent all day dancing, throwing himself into the challenge, trying to find some semblance of an idea of what he wanted. Well, he knew what he wanted, but clearly wanting to win the Grand Prix Final wasn’t enough. Was it even plausible to try again? He had left his previous instructor’s studio, fled to the comfort of Yu-topia instead of practicing for the new season. 

“Stop. Don’t think I don’t notice when you start getting in your head too much; your back is stiffer than my ruler.” Yuuri opened his mouth to speak, but Minako-sensei tutted.

“Don’t make me unretire my ruler, Yuuri. You need to stop thinking. All this thinking has only held back your true abilities; as a musician and a human being. Trust your instincts. Trust what you want, and go for it. Now, do that pose again, your feet are too far apart, it’s throwing your center out of balance.”

Yuuri swallowed his complaints. She made it sound like that was easy to do, to turn off the doubt and insecurity in his mind, which polluted his thoughts quicker than morning traffic. That taint couldn’t just be snapped away like magic; it’s residue would remain there for years, even if he could.

But he took in a deep breath, centered himself, and threw himself away.

~~~

On his way to Music Castle, the local performing arts auditorium, Yuuri watched as old recitals and Masterclasses with Minako-sensei spun around like a merry-go-round, blurring together as they flew behind the black underneath his eyelids every time they closed. 

He pushed the glasses further up his nose as he opened the door, a bored voice cutting through the stuffy silence to tell him that Music Castle was closing. His face split into a grin as he caught sight of Yuko behind the front desk, looking just as she had when they went to high school together, all the same sweet, compassionate disposition that had turned Takeshi head over heels for her. And him, for a little while.

“I guess I should leave, then.”

She turned, confusion melting into joy.

“Yuuri! Get over here, dummy! It’s been so long!” Yuko said, eyes brighter than the stage lights, smile fond.

Their hug was interrupted when Takeshi grabbed him and mussed his hair, poking at his chubby stomach with a snicker and a ‘glad to see you’, typical of Takeshi and his teasing, which had, at one point, been malicious. 

“How are you guys! Sorry it’s been so long.” Yuko just waved her hand.

“We’ve been great! It’s ok. You’ve been busy, from the looks of it. Being a viral sensation and all. And Victor’s arrangment of Love’s Sorrow, too! Do you think he saw it?” Yuuri twitched at that, scratching his head, trying to think of a way to reply that wouldn’t damper their rekindling too much.

“I hope not. But what have you been up to in Hasetsu? You guys work here, now?” Yuko and Takeshi shared a look, clearly seeing the obvious diversion, but, like Minako-sensei, knew when to pick their battles. 

“Yeah, I work the front desk and Takeshi does janitor work. Come meet my girls, Lutz, Axle, and Loop. Figure skating terms,” Yuko added after Yuuri’s confusion. “I still follow the sport. Here they are!” The trio had dashed to their side after Yuko called, and squinted at him, inquiring all sorts of information on if Victor Nikiforov saw the video (why was everyone asking him that? How should he know if Victor watched the video, and why would he reach out to Yuuri about it?) and if it was true that he’d never had a girlfriend (ouch).

“Enough! You be quiet and leave Yuuri alone! I’m so sorry, Yuuri. They’ve been wanting to meet you for a while. They’re being rude.” She broke off her friendly gaze to glare rather intimidatingly at the trio, who shrunk slightly under her withering attention. She sent them away with a threatening finger.

“It’s fine.” Yuuri replied, more shocked than anything by their bluntness. 

They moved on to other topics, some covering the time gaps from between high school and the present, some just memories from their past, Yuuri’s smile softening under their shared laughter. He had worried that after all this time, they would happily forget about him and move on, that his return would feel contrived. Time warped as they passed along the past like popcorn, until they eventually had their fill.

“We should catch up more, later. I promised I’d help out with the Inn.”

She and Takeshi waved him off, goodbyes drifting off into the night sky like smoke from a put out campfire. 

He returned to his bed, some semblance of clarity solidifying his decision. 

He wanted to perform on the same stage as Victor Nikiforov again, some day. The only thing left to do was figure out how.

He slept under the shadow of that question, restlessness pursuing his dreams. 

He woke to white coating the cherry blossom trees outside his window like powdered sugar, the bitter flash of familiarity at a similar night in Sochi five months before souring it’s sweetness and turning the beauty of the white outside into gray. Snow reminded him of his disintegration to ashes. He shook his head to clear his head of the ice that clung to his thoughts.

Snow this late in spring?

He checked his phone and saw the numerous weather alerts. He supposed it was not implausible for a spring freeze. Yuuri made his way downstairs, ready for another day filled with menial tasks and comforting labor, and on his way to Minako-sensei’s studio, intercepted his mother. She smiled up at him, and gave him a shovel, and the task of shoveling aside the snow that had accumulated unexpectedly in their lawn. 

He reached the door, before he heard it.

Barking; exuberent, joyful barking.

A large bundle of fur jumped on his chest, knocking him backwards on the floor, the feeling of a dog’s tongue jolting him into action. Laughing at the strange sensation, he pushed the dog away, and caught sight of a large poodle, one that, stangely enough looked like-

Makkachin. This poodle looked exactly like Victor Nikiforov’s dog. 

The revelation sent his heart flying headfirst into his rib cage, trying to break free from it’s confines of bone. His mind kept trying to come up with different reasons why it couldn’t be her, his state of panic easing as he convinced himself it was probably just an eerily similar look-alike.

His father walked up to him as he made to stand, the dog boofing happily as he scratched her ears.

“Sorry about that, Yuuri. She belongs to some good-looking foreigner out in the hot springs.”

It took only a couple of seconds to process, before he scrambled for the door that led out back, needing to see for his own eyes, if only to prove that it wasn’t true, which he so desperately wished it wasn’t, despite the tiniest, shameless hope that he had squashed, buried deeply under his panic.

“Yuuri? Wait-”

Yuuri did not, in fact, wait.

Because a good looking foreigner? A poodle that looked exactly like Makkachin?

Victor Nikiforov was at Yu-topia. 

Yuuri was screwed.


	6. Chaos at Yu-topia: The Sadistic Prince, the Witch, and the Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Victor, Minako-sensei, and Yuri are mean to Yuuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I was bored, so I wrote another chapter. 
> 
> I still wanted to include ballet in the story, because I feel like Yuuri's ability to be so emotive and musical when he performs is largely because of that influence in his life. That's also why Minako has a bit of a larger role in this universe. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Yuuri had thought that Hasetsu’s embrace would heal him in ways that Detroit could not.

Nothing was that simple, so it seemed. His strength felt even more fragile than before, because he was in an environment where he was not forced to persevere just to make the next paycheck, he had a home here, a family, friends; all the things that made him strong in Detroit made him weak here. There was no strife to challenge him so that he could push himself to better heights, and now the bandages he’d stuck over wounds that had festered for years and years were ripped off and exposed his sickness once more.

Victor Nikiforov was standing like a greek statue, that is to say, completely naked, beautiful, and proud in his family’s hot springs, steam curling off of his body, water clinging to his skin. 

And Yuuri felt more naked than Victor.

Because the differences between them were stark; Victor was beautiful, Yuuri was average (at best), Victor was a musical genius, Yuuri was average, Victor was confident, Yuuri was mentally weak. And here Victor was, presented like a God, surely to insult Yuuri, because what else could he be doing after that video went viral? He couldn’t be here to compliment him.

“V-victor?” Yuuri said, the moment stretched too long like hard taffy in his mouth, his teeth and tongue otherwise glued to the roof of his mouth. There was no sweetness, only sourness as he waited for Victor to say whatever he wanted to say.

“Yuuri. Starting today, I’ll be your piano instructor. With my help, you’re going to make it to the Grand Prix Finals. And this time, you’re going to win.”

“What?” That was Yuuri’s first thought. 

Yuuri’s second thought was that Victor was playing a prank on him. Thanks to the evident confusion that lit his eyes, even as his face was still adorned with his charming smile, Yuuri crossed that out despite his reluctance to believe and address his final thought: Victor was telling the truth. 

“What’s wrong, Yuuri?” He tilted his head at Yuuri with a question in his gaze that Yuuri felt better equipped to answer after a large bowl of Katsudon. As it was, Yuuri helplessly stared at him, that taffy feeling returning. 

“Oh,” Yuuri said, thinking quickly, “you must be, hm, cold! I’ll get you a towel.” Yuuri felt his flush make it’s merry way up his neck once more, and quickly turned to find a towel, desperately trying to find a way to keep his eyes from drifting any lower. He already most likely resembled a frog catching flies with his jaw resting on the floor, compared to Victor’s swan.

The sound of sloshing water met his ears just as he turned around to hand Victor a towel, and was met nearly nose to neck with Victor, and squeaked. If he hadn’t already been shaking, he certainly was then, as he raised to meet his gaze.

“Yuuri! I’m hardly cold. I live in Russia, this is like my summers there. Now: you didn’t answer my question.” His eyes narrowed what ,Yuuri thought hysterically, was a somewhat playful, maybe even flirty manner. 

“Er, yes, I’m so sorry of course, but. I- I don’t-”

“Yuuri! Bring Victor inside, won’t you? His dinner’s ready.” His mother popped her head from the entrance to the shower areas, her smile beaming at them. Yuuri whimpered as Victor expressed delight. He practically cried in relief as Victor moved from his personal space, which he had happily encroached; why he felt the need to be that close to Yuuri was as much of a mystery as Victor himself. Maybe it was the culture; wasn’t that a stereotype about Europeans? Did Russians not have personal space? 

Victor dried off as Yuuri hurried inside in a rather desperate attempt to avoid staring too hard at Victor’s body. He wasn’t ripped or anything, though he had broader shoulders, but was defined, much like a dancer, if Yuuri was correct. He wondered if Victor did ballet, for a moment, before the image of Victor in tights made his brain go into lockdown.

By the time dinner was set on the table, Victor had sauntered back from the showers, wearing a simple bath robe like it was a tuxedo, cerulean eyes sparkling as he took in the cuisine before him. According to his mother, Victor had introduced himself to her as Yuuri’s new piano instructor, and having recognized him from the vast collection of posters in his room, she rather enthusiastically extended her hospitality. 

“Vkusno! Amazing!” He proceeded to gorge his food like he demolished his competition; viciously, and without mercy. And in record time.

Yuuri stood there, awkwardly, trying to take in the new arrival and all the implications of his visit. 

For the first time, overshadowing the humiliation and self-degradation, was fear, blacker than the sleek paint of a concert piano, whiter than it’s sharp, glinting teeth or his pasty, corpse-like skin.

It wasn’t immediate or jarring, but rather, a seed planted firmly in his skull. He knew that someday soon, with the careful cultivation of his anxiety, that the resulting distress would split his skull open, and Victor would be able to see how deep the rot prevailed in his mind. 

When Victor yawned, then settled for a nap, Yuuri felt the pressure ease in his head, lost the need to stand straight and suck in the softness of his stomach. 

Minako-sensei burst through the door, gasping. 

“Yuuri! What the hell is going on! Is Victor going to be your piano Instructor? Everyone’s going crazy right now. He quit the season.” Yuuri felt faint.

“What. No. He- I don’t-” She had apparently caught sight of Victor curled up on the floor, silver hair shining like he imagined Victor’s aura to be, like an angel. His childhood crush was five feet from him in only a bathrobe. He had seen his childhood crush naked. 

This was a very strange day. 

Minako-sensei’s eyes flipped through emotions like she was searching for an answer in a textbook, that cynical glint wedged like ice in her eyes as she calculated her conclusion, turning to Yuuri with that scary gaze.

“Yuuri. They say he’s left Russia and the competitive music world because he watched that video of you playing Love’s Sorrow, and was struck with inspiration! That’s all because of you, Yuuri. So, whatever’s going through your head, stop it right now.” Her eyes made their way back to Victor, center of the room even when he slept, and raised a sharp eyebrow.

“Why’s he just laying there, anyways?” 

Victor stirred, sniffling. Yuuri blushed.

“Oh. He took a bath in the hot springs, ate, then just passed out here.”

He sneezed, speaking of the devil. Or angel. He rose, stretching, before looking over his shoulder, sleeve revealing the bare nape of his neck. Yuuri realized that for the remainder of their contract, he was going to remain an unattractive, splotchy red color. 

“Hmm. Hungry...food. I’m starving.” 

“Didn’t he just eat?” Minako-sensei muttered. Yuuri quickly talked over her rather blunt remark with enthusiasm.

“What would you like?” Yuuri kneeled, shins tucked in under his lower back, leaning in towards Victor with wide eyes.

Victor stared for a moment, before smiling coyly. “As your music instructor, I want to know what your favorite food is, Yuuri.” Now he felt like he must be dreaming; maybe he’d fainted when he saw Victor in the hot springs and had hit his head. 

“Oh,” Yuuri breathed, eyes shining. He probably would’ve just sat there, staring, if Minako-sensei hadn’t ruffled his hair aggressively on her way to the kitchen, shouting Victor’s request to his mother. Over Victor’s shoulder, she snickered, sending him a very clear look, her sharp teeth glinting. He only had time to glare for a second, before his mother walked in, presenting a large bowl of Katsudon to Victor like a gold medal. 

One bite later, Victor’s eyes popped open in delight, gulping and turning towards Yuuri.

“Vkusno! This is amazing, Hiroko! Is this what God’s eat?” Yuuri felt his glasses slip down his nose, but felt no urge to stop their descent, completely starstruck by the joy on Victor’s face while eating his favorite food; his favorite! It was the closest he’d ever get to a compliment from him.

“I’m glad you like it.” He said shyly, only to freeze as he felt Minako-sensei’s mischief brew to his right. 

“Yuuri’s always gained weight easily, which is terribly unhealthy for someone who’s locked in a room all day every day. That’s why he’s only allowed to eat it after competitions.”

Yuuri froze. The last thing he wanted to do was bring attention to his comparably less attractive body. 

“So. You’ve had Katsudon recently, then?” Victor said in between bites, voice deceptively light.

“Yes. All the time.” 

“Why? You haven’t won anything. With that piggy body of yours, lessons will be meaningless. In order to win, you must have a healthy mind, and to have a healthy mind, you must have a healthy body. We can’t start lessons until we get that fixed, okay, little piggy?” 

Yuuri didn’t even know where to start in unpacking whatever passage from his personal hell Victor just recited. On the one hand, what the hell, healthy mindset? He just called Yuuri a piggy. And on the other, was the fact that it was Victor Nikiforov insulting him. He couldn’t be truly mad; everything he said was true, in fact. (Really, though, piggy? Ouch.) 

Minako-sensei, because she and Victor must love sustaining his torture, jumped in.

“He’s been doing ballet with me since he could walk. He can just continue that in the mornings and practice in the afternoon to evening.” 

Victor looked way too enthusiastic at that knowledge, pinching his chin between his forefinger and thumb.

“Perfect! Ballet is perfect. Hmm. I want to ask you, Minako, if you would choreograph the pieces we choose for ballet. I think that would be a good way to turn exercise into a form of practice for the performance and musicality elements. That way, actual piano practicing can focus on the technical aspects of his pieces, since he doesn’t have much luck with that component score.”

Yuuri longed for his room, and not the company of a sadistic prince charming who swept in from nowhere and liked to insult him and his witch of a mentor, who liked encouraging it. 

“Sure. Just let me know what they are soon.” 

“Hey, this luggage is in the middle of the hallway. Can you guys move it?” Mari stuck her head around the corner into the dining room, annoyance evident in the hard line of her jaw. 

“That would be mine. You wouldn’t mind moving it to my room, would you?” He looked over at Yuuri with his bright blue eyes wide and his heart-shaped smile beaming. Yuuri was already standing before he’d finished the sentence; at least, until he processed the words.

“‘My room’?” Both he and Minako-sensei asked, the inconvenience sending a stab of irritation through Yuuri, which he suppressed, because of course Victor would stay here; he was Yuuri’s music instructor. No matter the fact that the inn was where he liked to forget about the stress of practice, or the fact that his privacy had just disappeared faster than a bowl of Katsudon.

He and Mari, nonetheless, stood and moved at least thirty boxes of Victor’s stuff, Mari leaving after to finish up the nightly duties. How much of this stuff does Victor even need?

“Wow! What a cute little room. Is there a bed?” Yuuri shook his head apologetically. 

“Sorry. This is a spare banquet room. Everything was booked.” 

Victor waved his hand. “Don’t look so anxious! I’ll bill you later for the Instructor fees, after you’ve won.” He winked.

“Th-thank you-”

“Now, Yuuri. I want to know everything about you.” He kneeled next to Yuuri, smoothly sliding back into his personal space with ease, like a knife through butter. He gripped Yuuri’s chin, and wasn’t that something? Victor Nikiforov looked like he was seducing him, tilting his face upwards both gently and with the unyieldingness of iron, eyes darkened to stranded at sea dark blue under the shadows. He felt his pupils expand to match Victor’s, lips parting in shock as Victor placed his hand over Yuuri’s.

“What composer do you like the best? What’s here in Hasetsu? Is there a girl you like?” Yuuri squeaked again, distantly thinking that he probably sounded ridiculous to Victor, constantly squeaking like a mouse. 

“I want this to work, between you and I. We need to build trust in our relationship.” 

When Yuuri said he never dreamed Victor would ever take an interest in him, he meant it, because why would someone like Victor want Yuuri? This is why, after hearing probably another passage from Yuuri’s personal hell and feeling Victor’s hand slide slowly up his arm, he scrambled back against the wall and effectively ejected Victor from devastating impact range. 

Every word coming from Victor’s mouth felt like hell; hot, very hot, but undeniably false. It felt like he was being tricked. His idol shows up, wants to coach him, then slides his hand up his arm, talking about trust and relationships? It had to be a trick.

He squeaked again.

Victor looked slightly lost. Then again, he was probably used to people melting at his touch. Not that Yuuri wasn’t melting. Just not in a healthy, normal way. More like a nuclear melt down, Chernobyl style.

“Why did you run away?” His eyes studied Yuuri from his place backed flat against the wall with a frown.

“Oh-uh. Nothing, ju-just a cramp, that’s all!” 

Yuuri was afraid of Victor; of the way that he could hurt him devastatingly if he wanted to, leaving his heart mangled inside his chest, leaving the rot to kill him, of the way that anything Victor wanted of him, Yuuri would give, the way that he so casually touched him without him pulling away, despite the fact that Yuuri usually hated tactile affection, because Yuuri realized he could learn to like it, like Victor. And Victor didn’t look like he had a clue as to what he was doing to Yuuri, with the way that he was stringing up his feelings like christmas lights, like trying to see how they would glow. 

Later that night, after he holed up in his room with the determination to sulk over his new complication named Victor Nikiforov, that very same problem showed up at his door, knocking relentlessly.

“Yuuri~! Let’s sleep together, Yuuri! There’s so much to learn about each other!” 

“No!” What was he thinking, saying things like that? Yuuri blushed, for the thousandth time.

Yuuri then looked straight into the eyes of a rather dashing Victor poster posing lasciviously against a Fazioli grand piano, and realised that Victor, at any time, at any opportune moment, could waltz into his room covered wall to wall with posters of him. Music sheet white replaced his previous red, the color draining from his face quicker than a slap from Minako-sensei’s ruler.  
He rushed into action, tearing down all of his posters, and carefully, carefully (some of these were special edition), slid them into a folder, sticking it underneath his mattress. 

“Yuuri! Yuuri?” Victor continued calling his name, but eventually figured it must’ve been a lost cause. The padding of feet back down the hallway signaled Victor’s retreat.

Yuuri unpacked the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders, collapsing on his bed.

Before today, they’d had but two words between them, two very disheartening words that had, and still, cut deeply like the ice in Victor’s eyes when he walked on any competition stage, sitting behind the piano with ruthless confidence, before transforming into whatever man the music needed him to be that day.

Yuuri had felt so far below him, he thought that Victor would never waste the time of day on him.

“They say he’s left Russia and the competitive music world because he watched that video of you playing Love’s Sorrow, and was struck with inspiration! That’s all because of you, Yuuri.”

All because of him? It was crazy to think, especially after so many failures and such little victory.

But, maybe, he could be the reason, he could let himself be the reason. Victor came to Hasetsu for him? Maybe.

Maybe the reason my heart’s pounding so hard is because...I’m happy.

~~~  
It turns out that happiness was destined to desert Yuuri the following morning, when instead of Minako-sensei breaking down the door, Victor walked right in and moved straight to Yuuri’s bed, pulling a Phichit and stealing Yuuri’s blankets. Yuuri hissed. 

Victor, instead of a normal person, laughed, pushing some of Yuuri’s hair behind his ears and patting him sweetly on the cheek like he was a dog. Makkachin bounded up to Victor’s side, nudging his hand in clear jealousy at Victor’s attentions towards Yuuri. She can have it, Yuuri decided irritably when Victor wisely retracted his hand. 

“Up, little piggy! Remember, a healthy body equals a healthy mind which equals winning the Grand Prix Finals!”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Victor.”

“It is if I say it is, silly Yuuri. I’m your music instructor. Now, we have plenty to do today, if you ever want to see that piano again!” Victor’s cheer had the capacity to either infect others or make people (read: Yuuri) bash their head against a wall. 

Nevertheless, Yuuri obeyed, dragging himself up from the dead of sleep, pushing Victor out into the hallway, and shutting the door to change in peace. 

“Yuuri~! There’s no need for you to be shy about changing in front of your Instructor. What about trust?”

“Thanks, Victor, but I don’t think that’s how that works. Just let me change in peace!”

Yuuri could feel the sigh through the wood separating them, and rested his head against the door, trying to calm himself.

“I’ll be out in a minute.” 

“Ok, Yuuri~! But be prepared, warm-up is going to be ten miles jogging by the beautiful Hasetsu beach. I’m not going easy on you just because it’s the first day.”

Victor either really didn’t know about proper motivation, or Yuuri was missing something. He sighed again.

His first day back on the training regiment; how bad could it be?

Very, very bad. It could be very bad.

Jogging ten miles had been the easiest part. Minako-sensei, who loved a good sadism party, drilled him on routines over and over until he keeled over on the floor, and they had to call for a break. Not to forget the fact that she brandished her ruler of death and attacked him with it every time his posture faltered or strained.

This was a continued cycle throughout the next two weeks, Victor waking him up, making him run ridiculous amounts, and then handing him off to Minako-sensei while he observed in the corner of the room, scrutinizing his every move, making Yuuri feel even more of an out of shape, nervous fool than he already was. 

By the time he had finally shed the excess weight, Victor had finished whatever project Yuuri had seen him work on occasionally while Yuuri trained with Minako-sensei, in between drilling holes into his back, of course.

Yuuri clambered up the stairs, elated that, at last, he’d reached his goal weight after so many long hours, when he walked straight into short, ruthless, edgy teenaged legend Yuri Plisetsky. 

Victor hadn’t been around to wake him up and ride his bicycle nonchalantly in front of him while Yuuri suffered, so he figured they would meet up at Minako’s studio later, and jogged by himself.

It was almost unbearable, alone. 

But now, a bigger problem presented itself than a lack of Victor. Yuri stuck his finger in Yuuri’s face.

“Piggy! I want to know why Victor came all this way for a little piggy like you. And I’ve come to bring him back to Russia, where he belongs. So, tell me, piggy: where the hell is Victor?”


	7. A Battle of the Yuris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Yurio is arrogant and Yuuri still won't let Victor sleep with him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Plot is starting to pick up. I know nothing about ballet, so all of that is credited to Google. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's given this story kudos or commented! I really appreciate it.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Victor woke up, it was to make a mad dash to the bathroom so that he could dump the contents of his stomach, which was nothing but burning, rancid alcohol. He had consumed glass after glass, until all he could see was twisting color, until all he could feel was misery with no name, long forgotten after his fifth shot or so. 

No shot could chase away the migraines, which hadn’t stopped Victor from trying.

The hour he spent in the bathroom was all Victor needed to hang up his flask for the foreseeable future. Migraine wasn’t enough to describe the way his head waged war on itself, how he couldn’t move without gagging, or how his thoughts were an incoherent stream that bled from his bruised mind. 

Every inch the pain receded was another step he took back to the makeshift bedroom, every breath was shallow, fearing that the air might brush the open sore in his head and send him straight back to the toilet. There were far too many inches between Victor and his medication.

With shaking hands, he swallowed the pills, not bothering to look for water. He sat at the edge of his bed (he’d shipped his over from St. Petersburg; it was top of the line memory foam) and tenderly rested his head on his palms, letting the silence press against his skull without a struggle. 

He allowed his thoughts to stray in an effort to hold fast to something that would distract him, and naturally, they circled right back to Yuuri.

Yuuri, who was nothing like he’d imagined, but everything he wanted.

Yuuri who, everytime Victor approached, scrambled away, even as his aura lit up the color of his blush, who avoided Victor like the plague, but did everything Victor asked without complaint. Who was dedicated, a beautiful dancer, and anxious all at once. 

He longed for his soft presence, for the gentle lullaby his aura sung to him, wished for him to be close, for Yuuri’s quiet breathing to remind him that migraines weren’t all that awaited him, that something good might be, instead. He made do with memories; Yuuri dancing, Yuuri smiling bewilderedly up at him as Victor made a joke, aura flashing bright blue, some blend of elation and disbelief, Yuuri cuddling with Makkachin after a long day of exercise. 

By the time the pain had mostly fallen away, only leaving a pressure behind his eyes, the time was ten-thirty, well after when he and Yuuri took their jog. He had been working hard those past weeks, so Victor felt Yuuri could use a break. 

However, when he checked his phone, there was a text from Yuuri reading: I’m finally at Minako-sensei’s set weight! I don’t know where you are, but I’ll go for my run to the studio anyways. 

Victor's smile pushed against his taunt skin, and he yawned, stretching cautiously. 

Very dedicated. 

Victor went about getting ready, eager to see Yuuri again. 

When he checked his email, he read that his project had finally been given the green light, something he planned on sharing with Yuuri later, when he was sure the floor couldn’t fall out from underneath it.

His journey out into the front yard was disorienting thanks to the encompassing sunlight, making his attempt to find Yuuri’s old bike much more difficult than usual. Hiroko lent it to him, saying that it wasn’t much use rusting away in the garage. He was in need of one; he was hardly going to run ten miles, not since he didn’t need to. 

Throwing his leg over the side, he took off, flying down the sidewalk, feeling like he had when Yuuri had swept him off his feet all those months ago. The cool breeze was like a salve to the throbbing behind his eyes, pushing his hair out from his eyes and clearing the sludge in his thoughts.

Minako’s studio was really her apartment, although the wooden floors were clearly installed to accommodate her ballet classes. He knew from her website that she was very versatile in the field of music, having learned piano and ballet, even notable for voice, having performed in an opera in Sydney. He also knew that Yuuri looked up to Minako still, even after he had left her studio. 

He had noticed the subtle choreographing in Yuuri’s video, and after talking privately to her, understood that Yuuri liked to choreograph his pieces for ballet so that he could connect with them; it was a technique Minako herself had instilled in him from a younger age in order to crank up his performance score. It worked remarkably well, but Victor expected nothing less from a woman who had won a Benois de la Danse. 

She had made it clear that he was allowed to enter without knocking, so he stepped out of his shoes and entered, only to stop halfway into the room, completely thrown. 

There, being chastised and berated by Minako while doing ballet drills, were Yuri and Yuuri.

At the sound of the door closing, both Yuri’s turned abruptly, in turn getting a slap on each of their arms. 

“Victor!” 

The way Yuuri’s mouth hugged the syllables of his name made Victor forget where he was, until Yuri dragged him back to earth.

“Old man! What the hell are you doing here?” Yuri demanded, arms crossed, Victor’s entrance having sparked his rage. 

“Well, I could ask you the same thing! Yakov must have at least five essays ready for you, because I’m going to assume you didn’t tell him about this little adventure.” 

“Whatever. I’m here to bring you back to Russia.” Yuri’s aura was like tangled thread, emotions jumbled in an ugly rainbow; toxic looking green envy mixed with black and blue hurt and fiery red rage. 

It suddenly occurred to Victor that he had probably forgotten something. 

“Hmm. I’m getting the feeling that I forgot a promise I made. Am I close?” Yuri looked rather like a balloon pumped with too much air, and judging by the vein popping out of his forehead, he was about to explode.

“You promised me after the Junior Grand Prix Finals that if I won without any quads you would arrange a piece for my senior debut! You’re coming back to Russia. I’m not letting you waste my promise on some pig!”

Victor didn’t so much as flinch, too busy thinking about the best course of action.

Yuuri’s usually amiable aura was twisting and thrashing about, a dark midnight black, and his body face was open and vulnerable, doe-eyes wide and troubled. 

Victor hesitated, before snapping his fingers, the answer right before him.

“I’ve got it! I have arranged two pieces. I’ll give one to each of you to practice, and then we’ll have a battle of the Yuri’s! Whoever surprises the audience more wins and gets the prize of having whatever they want from me.”

Yuri looked smug, confident, as he said, “Fine. If I win, you come back to Russia and become my Instructor.” Victor turned, not a hint of worry or tension in his face, to Yuuri.

“What about you, Yuuri? What do you want from me?” Yuuri stared for a little, lips parted as he thought, before his eyes steeled.

“If I win...I want- I want to eat Katsudon with you.” Victor’s smile melted a little, softening into something foreignly sweet.

“Because I want to win. And I want to keep on winning and keep on eating Katsudon with you, so I’m going to give it all I’ve got!” 

Victor laughed; Yuuri always surprised him in the best ways. He was so cute, looking so determined and serious about a competition against an arrogant, inexperienced fifteen year old.

“Gross. Just show us the music already, old man.” Victor shrugged, looking to Minako.

“Do you have a speaker I can use?” She nodded, disappearing down the long hallway across from Victor, leaving the three of them standing in stilted silence, Yuuri shuffling, his aura just as agitated, and Yuri crossing his arms, determinedly avoiding both Victor and Yuuri’s gazes.

“Here.” 

Victor set up the speaker, and stood, clapping his hands.

“Now. This first one is Ballade No. 1 by Chopin.” He hit play, and a slow, romantic melody began, simple chords and light structure pouring from the speaker, slowly building up speed and complexity like a snowball rolling down a hill, until the keys were flying, before slowing down once more. 

“Ugh. This romantic, ballade stuff makes me want to barf. Play the next one.” Yuuri quite liked the piece; it was always changing, never boring, and full of beautiful harmonies and challenging rhythms. It was also Yuuri’s typical style choice. Classical and romantic, with ample room to show off his musicality and performance.

Victor obliged, and said, “This next piece is Prelude in G Minor by Rachmaninoff. I wanted two contrasting pieces, so this one is a bit more harsh.” Yuri’s eyes snapped away from the window, and leaned forward as Victor pressed play.

This one was very different. Harsh was a good way of putting it. The piece was very bass heavy, growly, and frequently involved staccato. The pace was quick and urgent until the legato section, which sounded ominous and dream-like. Nothing was easy about either of the two pieces, it seemed.

Yuri’s face was smug. “I want to play this one.” Yuuri nodded his affirmation, fine with playing the first piece; it played way more to his strengths. Victor, however, just smiled cryptically. 

“Now. Let’s do this properly. Since I’m the judge, I’ll be making the decisions. These are my assignments: Yuri,” he pointed at the angsty teen, “you’ll play the Ballade, and Yuuri, you’ll play the Prelude.” The reaction was immediate.

“What!? That piece is so sappy and boring! Give it to the piggy, it’s perfect for him.” 

“Victor! I don’t think I can be so, er, aggressive. Yuri can have it.” 

Victor let them finish before holding up his hand, mischief and amusement swimming in his ocean eyes.

“You have to do the opposite of what people expect. How else will you surprise them? Anyways, you’re both way more mediocre than you think. You really need to be more self-aware! All you are to the audience is a piggy and a kitten.” He let them splutter for a little while, before nailing the final nail in their coffin.

“If you can’t play the entirety of your piece by the end of next week, then I won’t be either of your instructors. I’ll allow mistakes with an 85% success rate. I’m sure you’ll manage, since you’re both my fans.” 

Yuri scoffed. 

“In your dreams, old man.” 

Victor ignored him and called Minako. 

“Minako, you wouldn’t mind working with the other Yuri too, would you?”

She grinned all teeth, like a shark, and raised her ruler, causing both Yuri’s to flinch.

“First position, boys!”

The rest of the morning was spent straining muscles to their max and striving for the grace of a prima ballerina, Victor lounging leisurely on a couch, much to Yuri’s obvious ire.

It was a magnificent sight to watch the uncertainty and anxiousness that plagued Yuuri’s aura harden into cement, into determination. The way he transformed as a dancer was even more intriguing, seeing how at first, he lagged slightly behind every silent beat to match his insecurity, and then gradually, with each thought of persistence, moved ahead of it, anticipating rather than catching hold of the tail end.

Yuri was swift and well-taught, from their own training courtesy of Lillia, but one-track minded instead of self-aware, a bundle of fire set on destruction. His arrogance was a stark contrast to Yuuri’s self-awareness, which manifested like a shadow besides him. 

An hour or so later, they stopped for a break, desperately for a good meal and time to sit and rest.

After the Yuri’s, Victor, and Minako had lunch at a nearby local ramen restaurant, they headed back to Minako-sensei’s studio for the introduction to their piano lessons with their new assignments, Minako disappearing to take a business call for her restaurant. 

“I’ve already given the pieces to Minako for choreographing, and she’s promised to be finished by tomorrow night, so we’ll just do the warm-up tomorrow, no ballet. After that, Minako and I will work with you so that you grasp the performance aspects better, okay?” Victor hardly waited for their answers, walking in assured strides toward Minako’s piano room, hearing the sound of feet rushing after him.

“I’ve decided I’ll work with Yurio, first.” 

“That is not my name!” Victor just smiled. Minako had expressed on the way back from lunch that it would be confusing with two Yuri’s around, and had thus dubbed Yuri Yurio.

“Yurio, why don’t you play all twelve melodic minor scales, ascending and descending.”

It was hardly a question.

Yuri let out a hiss, but sat down dramatically anyways, playing all twelve at nearly impossible speed, probably just to spite Victor.

“There. Good enough, old man?”

Victor hummed, thinking for a minute (really just to spite Yuri in return) and replied, “Good enough. Now, sight read as much as you can and afterwards we’ll work on anything you have trouble with.”

Yuri rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. It’ll be easy, no problem.” His boredom lasted right up until he saw the physical music placed in front of him, after which his eyes narrowed, holding the paper up to the light.

“What the hell even is that rhythm?” Victor clapped his hands, and Yuri rolled his eyes, although he looked much less confident and a lot paler. 

He fared well in the beginning, but the simplicity was beguiling, his playing quickly downgrading during the trickier fingerings and the fast parts, completely falling apart by the last chord as the length of the piece stretched on, stamina severely lacking.

Yuri looked red in the face. 

Victor held back from teasing, instead focusing on the technical elements, guiding his playing without judgement. He had done remarkably well despite his flubbing, especially with such a long piece. He and Yuri worked for a couple more hours, Yuri improving vastly in an attempt to fix his wounded pride.

“Just work on more even phrasing and start looking at ways to make them more musical. Yuuri?”

Victor turned his head from his place leaning against the wall to face the other Yuri.

He was pale, any confidence gained that morning completely depleted, and looked down at his hands in disdain. 

“Yuuri?” 

He jolted out of his seat in the corner, walking unsurely towards the piano bench like it was stalking him, as though it was the master and not him; terrified. Victor, for the first time in a while, was at an impasse. Should he be encouraging? Or should he be more distant? He knew Yuri because he’d been around him ever since he had come into Yakov’s studio, but he’d only known Yuuri for a couple of weeks. 

What did Yuuri want from him?

He decided to try a more encouraging approach, not wanting to push Yuuri away. 

“Go on. Warm up with those melodic minor scales. I don’t have a ruler to throw at you, so don’t be afraid to make mistakes; better here than on stage.” Yuuri looked up at Victor with hesitance darkening his mahogany eyes. 

“Yurio is really good.” He sat down, hands hovering over the piano, trembling slightly.

“So are you.” He gestured for him to start, and Yuuri held back for another minute before beginning to play. 

At least, until he accidentally played B natural instead of B flat, cringing and shrinking within himself. Victor was at a loss; Yuuri was a fantastic player. He must’ve played these scales a million times before.

He’d met plenty of pianists who had nerves, but Yuuri’s anxiety was worse, on an entirely different level.

Victor just smiled at him. “It’s okay. Yurio missed at least two sharps in his B major scale. The key to performing is that you can’t let yourself stop if you mess up.” 

Yuuri seemed to snap into awareness after that, playing the rest of his scales with ease. When handed the music, he bit his lip, but didn’t lose the steel in his spine, which was ramrod straight, or his eyes, which were scanning the pages for any possible trouble areas. 

His hands were poised over the keys like he was about to dance, not play piano. Then, with a deep breath, he began to play, taking the tempo thirty ticks slower than the marked one, different to Yuri’s approach of trying to get through the piece as quickly as possible. The result was that he made significantly less mistakes than Yurio, even if the difficulty was lowered. There were, of course, many pitch and style errors, but ended up making it all the way through the end compared to Yuri’s run through. 

“Very good, Yuuri! I see you took it slower.”

Yuuri looked a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. 

“Yeah. It’s a sight reading technique Minako-sensei drilled into me. She liked to say that you should always pick a tempo that you’ll be able to play the hardest parts all the way through at.” Victor nodded; it was a valuable lesson, maybe one Yurio needed to learn. 

“Good. Now, there were still plenty of mistakes. Let’s look at them, shall we?”

The rest of practice was spent testing their new teacher-student relationship, learning each other’s style and tendencies. By the end of it all, Yuuri was drooping over the keyboard, almost drooling. Victor almost wanted to ruffle his soft, feathery hair; a tired Yuuri was an adorable one, even when he lashed out when he disturbed his sleep.

“Yuuri~! I think we’ve done enough, haven’t we? You need to work on those sixteenth note passages. Your fingers aren’t moving quick enough, and it ends up sounding choppy when you try to shift higher.” Yuuri’s face hit the keyboard, making a loud crash. 

“Oh, none of that, Yuuri! I want to return to your mother’s delicious cooking.” That managed to get some sort of response, his head shooting up, and his body darting towards the door.

The whole way home, Victor asked about Hasetsu, pointing curiously at stores labeled in kenji, and listened to all that Yuuri said. He watched as his eyes lit up like amber under the ministrations of the setting sun and shimmered like the sea beside them as he gesticulated wildly, relaying everything from history to memories. Victor was captivated. Yurio’s scoff could be heard at the description of the time Mari scared some kids that had been bullying Yuuri by pushing them off the pier during winter time.

When they made it back to Yu-topia, the sun was at its last rays, which were rapidly dwindling, turning the sky into a soft collage of oranges, pinks, purples, and blues, similar to Yuuri’s aura which was calm and content, with only the occasional flutter. 

Hiroko had prepared dinner, an assortment of noodles and vegetables with meat that Victor didn’t recognize but ate enthusiastically regardless. 

Dinner involved Yuri’s antics and Hiroko’s wonderful baby stories of Yuuri, which both he and Yurio enjoyed, albeit for different reasons. Despite his front of disdain, Victor could see that Yu-topia’s warm acceptance and tender atmosphere was stripping down Yurio’s defenses.

He could relate.

They retired much, much later, long after plates were emptied and many glasses of Sake had been passed around (excluding Yurio). It was clear where Yuuri got his poor alcohol ingestion from, since by the time Hiroko gathered Toshiya and made their way upstairs, he had attempted many times to dance on the table. 

When Yuuri retired to his room, Victor made another effort to get Yuuri to let them sleep together, which was promptly shot down to no one’s surprise. Victor retired to his room, face hurting from smiling rather than migraines. 

Yuuri and him had plenty of time in the next few weeks to familiarize themselves with each other's habits and regain the territory they’d lost since the banquet. Yuuri’s constant evasion of his advances was confusing, but slowly, he was allowing Victor’s touch in his life more and more. For the first time since his arrival at Yu-topia, he felt hope that maybe everything could work out. He recalled the determination in Yuuri’s eyes. 

He decided, before he fell asleep, that he would wait for Yuuri to take those first steps, instead of push him. 

Victor would do his best to meet him halfway.


	8. Battle of the Yuris: Leaving or Staying?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Nightmare Victor is a douche, and the battle of the Yuri's commences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Wow. It's four am, and I should be long asleep. But here's a chapter, instead. 
> 
> The plot has advanced.
> 
> Thanks for the support :)

“Just retire already! Loser.” Yurio shouted from stage left, his laugh malicious, some mock version of an aura swarming him like hornets, tar black and red like dried blood.

Victor sneered from the audience, such a horrific expression on his usually amiable face, as Yuuri played incomprehensibly, the keys making no sound as he pressed on them desperately. He tried to perform his piece, hands trembling, but no amount of digging frantically through the file cabinets in his mind could dig up any recollection of how the melody sounded, what the chord structure might be.

Yuuri looked up, the piano having vanished, to see Victor holding Yurio’s arm into the air to a screaming crowd in victory, not even looking back to offer Yuuri any modicum of comfort, so intense was his palpable disgust. 

“Victor! Victor, wait, I don’t-” Victor and Yurio walked off the stage, ignoring Yuuri’s shouts. Yuuri felt himself begin to break down, running after them, limbs weak and lethargic despite the desperation pumping through his blood, like poison. He grabbed Victor’s shoulder, trying to convey all the reasons he needed to stay here, because Yuuri needed him. Victor looked over his shoulder, eyes blank, confused and full of disdain.

“Commemorative photo? I have to go soon, so we’ll make it fast.” Yuuri couldn’t help when his lip trembled or when the wetness of his face fogged his vision, the hurt disfiguring him more than any punch to the face. But Yuuri needed to feel Victor one last time, if only for selfish reasons, even if Victor had forgotten him so quickly, so he nodded.

Victor flashed him a media tailored smile that didn’t dispel the apathy in his eyes, pulling Yuuri next to him and grabbing his waist firmly, causing his heart to constrict. He whipped out his phone, taking a photo, before leaning close to Yuuri, lips glancing his cheek. 

His lips were soft, leaving a burning feeling as they made their way to his ear. 

“Dasvidaniya, Yuuri.”

Yuuri watched as he and Yurio left, each step yanking at his heart like Victor had tied a leash around it. Instead of following them, he stood there, shaking.

Because Victor and Yurio could leave Yuuri in dreams and reality, but he had no hope of following them. They could walk paths Yuuri had not the talent to find, and he did not have the desirability to draw them away from their allure. 

When Victor waltzed into his room that morning, Yuuri was curled into the covers, struggling to wakefulness, tossing around in an attempt to drag himself from the depths of sleep that clung to him, trying to suck him back in. He felt a dip in his mattress, before a warm hand settled on his shoulder, a low voice murmuring, “Yuuri. Yuuri? Oh, you’re crying! Yuuri?” 

Yuuri sat up quickly, scrubbing at his face in earnest, sniffling pathetically. He felt angry and embarrassed at being caught in such a vulnerable position, wiping the remnants of his mental weakness with vigor. 

“What, Victor? I’m fine, it was just a nightmare.” The world was blurry from tears and lack of glasses, which he decisively left on his night table to avoid looking at the expression on Victor’s face. Victor seemed to have other ideas, reaching over to grab them, and sliding them on to his nose with tenderness he couldn’t comprehend. Yuuri would have blushed if his face wasn’t already blotchy from crying. He sniffled again.

“Thanks.” Yuuri muttered, peeking up at Victor’s face. His eyes were not, in fact, blank and disdainful, but brimming with affection. He pulled Yuuri into a hug, which was protested heavily, until Victor’s breath hit his ear, sending him still. The nightmare had been fading rapidly ever since Victor had woken him, but he could still remember the touch of lips to his ear, and the words they’d left pressed into his skin: 

“Dasvidaniya, Yuuri.”

Victor chuckled. “It’s okay, my Yuuri. A couple of nights ago, I woke up from a nightmare where Makkachin died. I cried for at least thirty minutes. Do you want to talk about it? These things aren’t good to live in your chest for too long.” Yuuri opened his mouth, mind split in half. Part of him wanted to say no, but then again, Victor had revealed such a personal detail of his life just to make him feel better. 

“I dreamed that I messed up really bad at the competition next Friday, and that you left. When I stopped you, you didn’t remember me.” He brought his knees up to his chest, not intending to reveal the devil that haunted the details. 

“Oh, Yuuri. I could never forget you, silly. I’m here, aren’t I? No matter what happens, I’m not going to abandon you. You and Yurio are so self-important sometimes.” There it was, that Victor bluntness. Yuuri couldn’t decide if it made him more endeared to him, or made him want to rip out his hair. He relaxed in Victor’s embrace, letting himself bask in his touch, in the fact that he was still there and not on a plane heading to Russia.

Eventually, Yuuri pushed out of his arms, smiling up at him.

“I can’t change when you’re in here. Go on, I’ll be out in a few minutes.” Victor poked his nose.

“Of course you will. Otherwise, I’ll have to make you run fifteen miles.” Yuuri blanched, squinting at his face, trying to determine if he was joking. He laughed nervously. 

“Nice one, Victor.”

“Oh, I wasn’t joking. 

Yuuri scrambled, shoving a laughing Victor out of his room, and shutting the door. 

He had never dressed so quickly in his entire life; Victor would absolutely make him run fifteen miles.

He yanked open the door after he grabbed all of his essentials to see Victor looking intently at his phone. 

“What are you looking at?” Yuuri asked, a voice in his head wondering if Victor really was leaving him. He looked up, though, and those shadows dissolved under the brightness of his smile.

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Don’t worry, Yuuri, it’s a surprise. Let’s go find Yurio. He’s probably by the food. He’s in love with your mother’s cooking, no matter how many times he hisses.”

With that, they made their way to Yurio, who was indeed in the dining room, shoveling food into his mouth, his expression some strange amalgamation of rage and delight.

“Oh, Yurio! Good morning. Are you ready for your warm up?”  
Yuuri slammed down his fork, standing.

“This was delicious!” He shouted, before turning to Victor. “Sure, whatever, old man.” 

Victor moved to the door, calling out behind him, “Since both of you are so enthusiastic about the warm up, let’s do a twenty mile jog!” He exited Yu-topia to escape the fallout from his words, whistling happily as he rolled out his bike from the shed with both Yuri’s at his heels.

“Old man! Take that back! I am not doing twenty miles for a stupid warm up!” Victor brushed the spittle flung at his face, assessing Yurio’s feral face.

“Victor! I’m sorry for whatever I did, but please, I don’t think I can make twenty miles.” Yuuri wasn’t far behind, “puppy eyes” looking up through the thick fan of his eyelashes, a trick that seemed to work well enough with Phichit. Victor hummed, looking off into the horizon in mock consideration.

“Well, okay. But we’ll have to compromise. How about fifteen miles?” Yuuri and Yurio looked at each other in confusion.

“Um, ten? Ten miles?” Yuuri replied, unsure as to Victor’s game plan. 

“Hmm. How about thirteen? That’s my final offer.” Both Yuuri and Yurio shrugged. It was better than twenty miles. 

“Good! Now, follow me. We’re going on a different route today.”

Their jog was long and arduous under the heat of the sun, sweat seeping from their skin and fogging up Yuuri’s glasses, causing him to rely on Yurio’s heavy breathing and Victor’s humming instead of sight. Yurio, at the beginning, had remained fairly close to Victor’s bike, but as the miles trudged on, fell behind Yuuri, who had been steadily maintaining his three yard distance from Victor. 

He thought he could recognize the landmarks, but with his glasses, he couldn’t be sure if their destination was what he suspected.

Soon, however, Victor stopped in front of a familiar, black building.

“Music Castle? What are we doing here, Victor?” Yuuri cleaned his glasses, breathing heavily. He had been wondering what Victor intended to do with them since their ballet lessons were cancelled this morning. Then, the reality of Victor’s slyness hit him.

“You were messing with us! You were going to have us run thirteen miles from the beginning, weren’t you?” Yuuri shoved his glasses on his nose, turning to Victor, who had just swung off of the bike, unconcerned.

“Well, how else was I supposed to get you two to jog three extra miles?” Victor said, only the slightest bit of sweat from his bike ride falling into his eyes. Yuuri smiled sweetly.

“It’s an uphill bike ride back, you know.” Victor stopped walking, hands on his hip. 

“I know! I called Minako-sensei to pick us up.” Both Yuri’s exchanged brief glances of relief, before his stomach sank as he considered the bike in his peripheral.

“What about the bike? Minako-sensei’s trunk won’t be able to carry it.” 

“Great question, my Yuuri. I’ve decided that we’re going to play some games. The loser must ride the bike back to yu-topia, and the winner gets to enjoy the luxury of an airconditioned ride in Minako’s car, with me!” Yurio, who had been trying to catch his breath, snarled angrily. 

“What the hell are you playing at? We have a competition to play at in two weeks! How is playing games going to help me win?” His arms were crossed and his hip was cocked, annoyance heating his gaze, which burned like green fire.

“Hmm. I don’t know, I thought it would be fun. Now, this way, please!” 

Both Yuri’s sighed and followed him, helpless to do anything but play along.

Yuko, who had been seated at the front desk, jumped up in shock at the sight of them, squealing.

“Yuuri! It’s true that Victor came all the way to Japan just to be your Instructor? Get over here, and tell me all about it!” Luckily, Yuko had been talking in Japanese, which had clearly gone over Victor and Yurio’s heads. 

So, Yuuri did, keeping it short and sweet, as the other two meandered around, and, embarrassingly enough, found his shrine, Victor studying a picture of him performing on stage while Yurio gagged at the plaque underneath it. 

“That’s so cool, Yuuri! But, I can see you guys are busy, so I’ll let you go. The auditorium wasn’t rented today, so take as long as you want.” Yuko shooed him towards Victor, pride radiating through her smile.

The three walked down the long, familiar hallway, Yuuri feeling another pang of the fear that stalked him as he recalled all the performances and auditions he’d done on that stage.  
When they pushed open the double doors into the auditorium, he heard quiet, sharp intakes of appreciation around from behind him. The funding for this auditorium had largely come from big donors like Minako-sensei, who wanted to keep the fire of classical music burning brightly for many future generations to come. As a result, the floors were well polished, the seats were nice and comfy, and on the stage, sitting like a throne for a king, was a Bösendorfer grand piano. By far, one of the best piano’s he had ever laid his hands on.

“Wow! Is that a Bösendorfer? How much did that cost?” Victor asked, eyes eager. 

“Minako-sensei talked to some people she knew in Germany who specialized in making them, and got a pretty good deal.” Yurio wheeled around.

“She what? How the hell would she just know someone like that?”

“She won a Benois de la Danse, little Yurio. I’m sure she had the necessary connections. Besides, didn’t you notice the Fazioli she had? You played on it for like four hours.” 

They made their way to the stage, Yurio looking rather faint.

“Okay! There will be three rounds; Improvisation, sight-reading, and hide and seek.” 

Silence.

“You’re telling me that we ran all this way to play hide and seek?” Yurio groaned, looking as if he regretted coming to Japan altogether.

“Something like that. Now, for Improvisation. You’ll both reach into my tissue plushie and pull out a slip of paper, which will tell you the key, and have five minutes to come up with at least one minute worth of improvisation. Who wants to go first?” 

Victor’s expectant glance narrowed no immediate response. “Okay, well in that case, -” 

“I’ll go first.” Yuuri interceded before Victor could make the situation any more unbearable.

“Great! Here you go, my Yuuri.” He held out his Makkachin plushie look-alike. Yuuri reached inside, and pulled out- E major. Yurio burst into laughter.

“Nice job, piggy.” Victor gestured to the piano, the lights of the stage setting his silver hair on fire.

“Ready? Time starts- now!”

Yuuri hurried to the piano, already thinking about the chord structure he wanted, determined to use this game as practice for their competition. Yurio’s laughter, while a little mean, was an appropriate reaction to E Major; that key was notoriously one of the most difficult keys on piano.

Yuuri played nothing but the scale, opting for mapping out the melody in his head so that he didn’t waste time with his perfectionist tendencies. He wasn’t too concerned with rhythm; the general outline was more important than the details he could improvise in his performance. 

Yurio was still snickering in the background, smug at what he thought to be an easy win.

Victor was staring intently at Yuuri, who could feel the eyes wandering across his skin in interest, shivering slightly at being under the complete attention of his idol. Yuuri had little time to process this, desperately trying to finish before time was up. 

“Okay, stop! Whenever you’re ready, my Yuuri.” Yuuri blushed. 

My Yuuri. What was he doing, saying things like that?

Yurio scoffed. “Eyes up here, old man.” 

Victor’s cheeks turned rosey, clearing his throat. Yuuri stared at them, confused, before turning towards the piano, disregarding their strange exchange.

“Remember that having a pre-performance ritual is important. Do something that brings a sense of comfort and familiarity, like cracking your knuckles or taking a deep breath. Anything.” 

Yuuri took off his glasses and cleaned them, sliding them back on his nose with a deep breath.

He began.

He had wanted it to be in the style of a waltz, something melodic and playful, reminiscent of a duet. His hands danced across the keys, bass hand bouncing lightly as the chords changed, the right hand gracing the melody with sophistication. Yuuri knew he had to fill the space of sixty seconds with not much material, so he elongated the introduction by adding ornaments and letting the phrase flourish, slowing the tempo at the beginning and speeding it up as the chords built. He repeated some phrases for dramatic effect, padding out time, until Yuuri was pretty sure one minute had long since passed. 

Yuuri stopped and looked over at Victor and Yurio, puzzled at why they weren’t stopping him.

Yurio was slouched in his seat, pale, and absent of any of his previous mirth, whereas Victor looked like he could hardly contain his excitement.

“My Yuuri~! That was so well done. I’m not sorry for not stopping you, by the way. Such a beautifully simple piece! Yurio?” Yuuri wasn’t too sure if that meant Victor liked it or not, so he just shrugged and took Yurio’s place as he stood, reluctance dragging down his posture from the impeccable straightness he must have learned from years of lessons and an entire life of pridefulness.

Yurio reached into the tissue holder, pulling a face as he unfolded the slip of paper he had grabbed.

“C Major? Are you fucking kidding me?” Victor tsked at his vulgar language, although he was clearly entertained by Yurio’s plight, ‘coughing’ as he plopped heavily on to the piano bench. C major was the most difficult key to play on the piano; the human hand didn’t naturally fit the finger patterns, resulting in some interesting hand contortions. 

“And...Go!” 

Yurio seemed perplexed as to what to do, messing around a little with the piano, but never forming any one solid idea. Yakov had clearly not taught him how to improvise, judging by the foul look brewing in his eyes, which had started to look like deadly lasers.

“Time!” 

Yurio shifted, and began.

It wasn’t awful, but very rudimentary, basic, like a slightly more advanced Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Yuuri gave him credit for still going through with it despite having no experience in composing; he probably would’ve forfeited, too embarrassed to perform a poorly done rough draft. When Victor called time, Yurio said nothing, just stood up and walked over to them.

“What’s next, old man?” Victor and Yuuri made brief eye contact, a silent agreement made; they wouldn’t wound Yurio’s pride further.

“Next up is sight reading. I’m going to give each of you the same piece. You will each take turns sight reading as far as you can until you make a mistake. The goal is to make it farther than the other person. Yurio! I think you should go first.”

The lasers in Yurio’s eyes aimed towards Victor, who brushed them off with ease. Yuuri would’ve been terrified if it were him, but then again, he must have developed an immunity to his aggressive disposition. 

Yurio sat perched at the bench as Victor placed the music in front of him.

There was something to be said about rage as an efficient motivator; Yurio played everything from funky time signatures to sixteenth note passages that blurred past with terrifying accuracy, eyes zeroed in at the page so hard Yuuri wondered if it would burst into flame.

Unfortunately, Victor picked a very difficult piece, and around the second minute, his left hand played c sharp instead of c natural, ending his run through. 

He sauntered over to Yuuri, extending his arm to the piano with a mocking smirk. “Beat that, piggy.” 

Yuuri didn’t.

When he sat down and looked at the ink on the page, everything seemed to blend together, and when he looked up, he met Victor’s expectant gaze. Improvisation was different; Yuuri had no expectations to fulfill when he improvised, because he was the one who made them. 

“Dasvidaniya, Yuuri.”

He didn’t make it to the tenth measure before playing the wrong rhythm, mind filled with thoughts of leaving and cold, cold eyes, burning in shame at Yurio’s snicker. Victor’s expression didn’t falter, still beaming at them, no ice present in his gaze.

“Alright. Since Yurio won this game, he’ll be the seeker, and me and Yuuri will hide. If you find us before my alarm rings after ten minutes, you win, Yurio. Close your eyes and count to thirty.” 

Victor grabbed Yuuri’s hand and pulled him off the stage, before Yuuri yanked his hand out of his grip, waving for him to follow; it was his auditorium, after all, he knew all of the best hiding places from years of needing to calm down in a quiet environment. He led them up a secluded stairway and up through the fire escape, climbing out into the warm tussling of the wind in their hair. 

They sat, winded, looking over the side of the auditorium and towards where the sun was beginning it’s descent into afternoon, which set the ocean below it into a blazing array of blues silver, a color pallet of Victor.

“So. Why are we here, doing all this?” Yuuri was curious; Victor wasn’t the sort of person to do meaningless distractions. Victor turned to him, disarming him with a small smile. How did Victor manage to do that every time?

“You haven’t performed here in who knows how long, certainly not for a crowd the size that’s going to be there for Friday, and Yurio’s never done either, not with senior division music. When you’re in an unfamiliar place in a stressful situation, you can’t think as clearly, there’s more of a chance for error. These games are more than games. Take improvisation. Tell me, why would I ask you to improvise?”

Yuuri thought for a while, enjoying the sound of the seagulls flying overhead, and the distant crash of waves.

“Practice in case we mess up while we’re playing. If we can’t remember something.”

Victor nodded. “What about sight reading?”

“To get better at thinking on our feet? But that’s what improv is for.”

“Not necessarily. Improvisation is a very creative process, something that requires preemptive thinking, and planning one measure ahead. Sight reading in those conditions is forcing you to immediately confront every note without time to prepare. What about hide and seek?”

This one had Yuuri stuck. What could hide and seek have to do with performing? When he repeated that to Victor, he received a pinch to the cheek.

“My silly Yuuri. You out of everyone should be able to figure it out.”

“Unless you’re trying to tell us to hide from our problems, then no.”

Victor laughed.

“I always like to explore the spaces I perform in; it helps me get the whole picture of where I am. When you only see the auditorium from the point of view of the stage, all you see is the darkness and a bunch of expectant faces. I find that exploring it from the audience point of view makes it less about you and the competition, and more about the music, about putting on a riveting performance.”

They sat in blissful silence, Victor’s humming soothing, like a lullaby.

“You just wanted to watch us fail.” The silence that followed was as sure as a conviction.

Victor's sudden burst into sniggers drew a fond sigh from Yuuri. He grabbed Yuuri’s hand, tapping on his skin a rhythm suspiciously like Winter Wind by Chopin, fingers sure and agile, scooting closer.

“I wanted us to have fun.” Yuuri looked up into his eyes, raising his eyebrows. 

“Fun? Yurio looked like he wanted to cry.”

“I did not!” 

Victor and Yuuri turned their heads at Flight of the Bumblebee speeds.

“And- and I’ve caught you! So the pig loses, and I get a ride home.” Yurio was standing there, caught red handed at eavesdropping. Yuuri sagged, lamenting his impending journey; thirteen miles of uphill biking. Victor patted his shoulder in sympathy. Yuuri kind of hated him.

“Better get started, Yuuri. I can smell Hiroko’s cooking from here. Minako should be here soon, Yurio.” Yuuri stood, making his way down the stairs, rather dejectedly, and past the front desk, waving goodbye to Yuko. He sighed as he looked at the hill before him. 

He had a long way to go.

~~~

The next two weeks were non-stop preparation, constantly working at perfecting every detail before their first performance of the season. Each day that past drug up more nightmares and memories of failures, and like a garbage dump, they expanded into their own island in his mind that only grew as the competition drew nearer. 

Yuuri was frustrated. His piece, while it wasn’t close to technical perfection, suffered more in the performance department. No matter what he did, he couldn’t muster up that seductive anger and allure that the darkness of the piece conjured. No amount of Victor correcting his style helped him. He was Yuuri Katsuki; his style was flourishing phrases that gushed like a river and musicality that was unrivaled, not harsh staccato and fortississimo. 

At least he wasn’t alone in his plight. Yurio had many temper tantrums with Victor, once ranting about how he was playing everything like he asked and that Victor was being unreasonable. Victor let Minako-sensei hit him with a ruler afterwards, to ‘teach an important lesson about humility’. 

It was after a long day of practice and failure to meet Victor’s expectations that it came to him.

He was watching glumly as Victor gorged on Katsudon, poking at his own with much less enthusiasm, to his mother’s worry. Victor had allowed them a once a week cheat day since piano wasn’t actually a physical sport and the ballet they were practicing wasn’t leaving the studio. The other two were carrying on with their typical banter as Yuuri rested his head on the table, staring at his food. What does passion mean to me? What makes me passionate, what seduces me?

“That’s it! Katsudon is my passion!” 

Victor and Yurio stopped, Yuuri’s words absorbing, before Yurio cackled. Victor, strangely enough, looked slightly crestfallen for a moment, before rearranging his face into amusement.

“If you’re sure.”

What the hell is wrong with me! I’m such an idiot. Katsudon is my passion? God please take me now…

~~~

Yurio’s revelation came not too long afterwards. He had once again performed under Victor’s expectations, landing them both (much to Yuuri’s protest) a trip to the waterfall, which was their back up punishment for when Minako-sensei wasn’t available to hit them. 

They were standing under the raging of the waterfall, water thundering around them, crashing and sending mist into their eyes as they shivered. They had been under the water’s ministrations for about ten minutes, when he noticed that Yurio was looking off into the gentle slope of the garden, face clean of his usual disdain and shoulders devoid of tension. He looked thoughtful, wistful, almost vulnerable.

“Yurio? Yurio?” 

He awoke from his trance after another minute lost in thought, his face shuttering closed.

“What? Let’s not stand here all day, piggy.”

Yurio stepped from out of the torrent of water, moving past Yuuri to the changing rooms. 

He had found his agape.

~~~

The day of the competition was a teetering tower of tension, and both him and Yurio were waiting for it’s inevitable fall. Victor seemed unaffected, still making cheerful small talk despite their unusually quiet demeanor. 

They were still required to do their warm up and ballet practice before moving their practice to Music Castle. Yuuri spun and threw himself into his ‘seduction of the Katsudon’, as it was known to Victor. But with every touch and endearment Victor gave to him, every smile and word, both critical and praising, Yuuri was realizing that his passion was not fueled by his love of Katsudon, but rather his interactions with Victor. His face, his eyes, his hair all lingered with Yuuri’s longing as he moved, his desire. 

He thought Victor might know that, too, but he wasn’t sure. His aura had been described to him as muted, almost impossible to discern. Surely, Victor couldn’t tell how hopelessly weak he was for him?

Yuuri hoped not; that would mean that Victor didn’t return his feelings, whatever they were. 

When the competition rolled around at seven, he, Yurio, and Victor were all waiting in the green room backstage, pressure crushing them like aluminum cans under water, or at least he and Yurio, who was pacing in his suit, hair brushed and shoes shined, but agitation contorting his confident persona. Yuuri was shaking in the corner, watching as Yuko fetched Yurio for his performance. He felt himself dissociating, eyes defocusing, stuck in the cement of his thoughts, helpless as the fear rose to his chest. 

When Yurio began, Yuuri felt the very real possibility of failure. 

His performance had changed, more melancholic, wistful and lingering, instead of rushing through the spaces between the notes; there, underneath all of his rage and angst, was Yurio’s agape. However, as the piece drew into its last minute, Yuuri could hear the exhaustion in his playing, slowly reverting back to being rushed and devoid of emotion. 

When the final chord rang out, Yuuri applauded, amazed at his technical ability, especially for someone so young. 

Before falling back into himself. Because he was next. He bent over, trying to ease the sudden cramping in his stomach. 

“Yuuri. It’s time to go.” 

Yuuri looked up, hands clapped to his mouth to cover a whimper. 

Victor was standing there, just like in his nightmare, expression guarded. 

Yuuri dropped his hands to his side, walking up to him, schooling his expression. 

Yuuri was admittedly a sore loser. This man before him, who forgot promises and people like Yuuri the minute he was bored with them, who strung hearts along like Makkachin on a leash, who inspired him to be a better person, stood there looking at Yuuri with nothing, and Yuuri wanted to change that.

“Watch me. I’ll be the tastiest Katsudon you’ve ever seen.” 

Yuuri cautiously observed his reaction, relieved at Victor’s fond smile.

“I’m sure you will be.”

There was only sincerity in his eyes, which lingered on his face, studying him for a reason Yuuri couldn’t fathom. 

Yuuri turned away, walking the familiar path around the back of the stage, which was dark and shrouded in shadow. He steered himself out from the shield of the curtains and towards the piano, it’s seductive shine reminding him of the performance he had to give that night.

It was time for Yuuri to send Victor a message.

The seat was not as comfy and well used as Minako-sensei’s, but he imagined that he was in her studio anyways, conjuring her presence besides him, and could almost feel the slickness of wood at his feet and the smell of fresh lemons. He slid his glasses off of his nose, the oppressive silence behind the curtain of stage lights sending a shiver down his back as he cleaned his glasses, resting them back in place. 

His hands hovered over the piano, the keys gleaming like pearls.

He took a deep breath, and threw himself away.

He let the moments blur together, focusing only on Victor, and how much he wanted him to stay.

“Dasvidaniya, Yuuri.”

No.

He wasn’t going to give up, surrender to that darkness that clung to him like tar. It didn’t matter how many times he missed g sharp; he could make them forget.

“You want to know how Nikiforov does it? He performs so fantastically, with such dedication to the music and the audience, with such fantastic musicality, that every mistake is forgotten before the pen can hit paper. Make them forget.”

He had to make him forget about everything, everyone else, but him. He gripped the keys, pushing and pulling each phrase like taffy, ignoring the phantom sting of Minako-sensei’s ruler as he messed up the rhythm in measure sixty seven.

He could recall all the advice for phrasing and style that Victor had given him with ease, but rather than listening to his words, he listened to his voice, clear and deep, like a river washing over him. Centering him.

He remembered when they’d been sitting on the roof of Music Castle, watching the afternoon unfold around them for a brief moment of seclusion, and the way it felt for Victor to grab his hand. He had never taught someone before, but he tried so hard to be the best teacher possible; he criticised them when they needed to hear it, praised them when they deserved, and with Yuuri, sought to understand him in all the ways that Celestino didn’t attempt to. 

“They say he’s left Russia and the competitive music world because he watched that video of you playing Love’s Sorrow, and was struck with inspiration! That’s all because of you, Yuuri.”

Because of him? 

Or because he was bored? There were a thousand reasons why Victor might have came to Japan, but the only thing that mattered was the reason he stayed. 

Stay close to me, Victor. 

The last chord struck.

~~~

It was not Yurio’s arm he raised into the air, but Yuuri’s. 

Victor held him closely, arm wrapped around his waist as Yuuri was presented with a standing ovation. When he turned into those cerulean eyes, all he could find was warmth. 

Victor leaned in close, and Yuuri’s heart sputtered, eyes flickering down to his lips as hot air ghosted his cheek.

“You call those sixteenth note passages even? I could put my one year old cousin on that piano and he would make smoother transitions. Also, don’t get me started on those g sharps-”

Victor never failed to surprise him.

“But, your performance was enthralling. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you, my Yuuri.”

Victor was going to stay.


	9. Fireflies, Seagulls, and Card Games, Oh My!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Yuuri goes to the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship and learns how to move in feminine ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I was entirely intending on posting this yesterday, but it was 4:30 am and required much editing because I only write nonsense at that hour. I've also been tired lately from staying up to write, so I'm probably going to stick to a Monday Wednesday and Friday posting schedule. I take FOREVER to write one paragraph. Sometimes five minutes, most of the time one HOUR. I've been writing all day every day, and I don't want to burn out (which isn't the case now; 4 am just isn't a great bed time four times in a row). 
> 
> But, yes, I have often played card games during important auditions. It's also common for pit musicians to play them during non musical parts.
> 
> And yes, I have strained my arm, and my shoulder, because I play viola, which is very heavy. 
> 
> Also: I PROMISE I do not bite! Please, please comment. Anything, from observations to criticism. I always respond, and I always take feedback into consideration.
> 
> Thanks for the support :)

“No! I want you to stay who you are, Victor!” 

He had abandoned Victor Nikiforov a month ago when he’d left Yakov to be Yuuri Katsuki’s instructor, and after a whole month of exploring what it meant to just be, he couldn’t help but be confused as to who Victor was. Yuuri seemed to have some idea. 

Who else was Victor, other than a pianist? 

Yuuri sat next to him, and Victor could feel every inch between them. 

They were sitting on Hasetsu’s beach, the sky a patchwork of dark, bruised clouds, white ones that looked like the stuffing Makkachin had ripped out of his pillow a couple of days ago, and the barest hints of blue, which peered wistfully through the clutter. 

Makkachin herself was leaping and bounding along the lazy pull and push of the water on the shore, barking at the seagulls and chasing after them as they scattered to the wind.

Yuuri was watching her with a small smile hidden behind his knees, aura a royal blue with shimmerings of silver. Yuuri was the sky, hiding in a gown of thoughts that shrouded him with their threats of rain and smother. He pondered what they were, and if he were a part of them, too. 

The wind was warm and thick with salt, leaving traces on his skin and in his hair, which fluttered in its smooth current. He had buried his hand in the sand, the cool, grainy texture feeling soothing to his skin, enjoying the way it fell between the cracks between his fingers. 

Things like that were what Victor had been missing. 

He had moved through life always trying to make the next ten hour flight, always rushing through the cities he visited in an attempt to make a competition. Sure, he had been to Paris, but he hadn’t experienced it. It had been just another pit stop on his journey to -to what? Fame? He had that. Fortune? He had that, too. Victor was hardly concerned with glory, anymore, either.

He had been searching for something: life and love.  
I’ve been searching in all the wrong places, thought Victor, as he regarded Yuuri. 

“The seagulls here remind me of St. Petersburg.” He had never appreciated their presence before Victor’s expedition to yu-topia, never appreciated a lot of things. Like the way silver fire danced on the ocean when sunlight hit the surface, or the waves sighing as they rocked back and forth like a cradle. 

“What’s it like there?” Yuuri murmured.

“Busy. The streets are full of people rushing to work and tourists. It’s beautiful there, with the opulent architecture and city lights, and snow, too, in the winter. Or sometimes, the spring, too. I never had the time to visit the beach there, though.”

Yuuri turned his cheek to rest on his knee, facing Victor.

“You should take me there, sometime.” 

Victor beamed. 

“After the Grand Prix Finals. We’ll go sightseeing.”

Yuuri had lit up, his aura turning rose gold. 

“Absolutely. I’ve always wanted to see the er, -Church of the Savior? It has a long name, I just can’t remember it.”

“The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. It took me a while to remember, too.”

In all their time as student and Instructor, neither had discussed a future beyond the Grand Prix Finals. No matter how vague the promises they made there, Victor was willing to cling to them. 

Yuuri had been evasive the past week, avoiding him, being unresponsive outside of lessons. Victor had been at a loss, but resolute to let Yuuri come to him when he was ready. That morning, Yuuri had said yes. 

“I never thought I would leave that city. But now that I’m gonet, I realize I never cared or noticed the seagulls until after I left. Do you have moments like that?”

Yuuri’s eyes followed a flock of seagulls wrestling over a fish a few yards away. 

“Back in Detroit, there was this girl. She was pushy, always wanting to be with me. One time, my friend got injured in a skating accident, and I was waiting in the emergency room. I was pretty upset. She tried to hug me, and I just pushed her away, without thinking about it.”

“Wow. Why?” 

“I felt like she was pitying me, intruding on something she wasn’t meant to see. My family, my friends, Minako-sensei...they never treated me like I was weak. They let me grow, no matter if that meant getting hurt or doing something on my own. They never stepped over that line.” 

Makkachin padded over to them, shaggy fur clinging to her body from her escapade in the water, and plopped down next to Victor. 

“You’re not weak, Yuuri, and no one thinks that.” 

Victor’s companion was breathing heavily, looking up at them with her tongue lolling out of her mouth, eyes alight with adoration. 

“What do you want me to be to you, Yuuri?”

“We should get back, Victor. Minako-sensei’s been on a kick with that ruler.”

Victor smiled up at him, reaching out his hand for Yuuri to pull him to his feet. “Then we better hurry.” 

“A father figure?”

“No…”

“A friend?

“Hmm…”

“A mentor?”

“Mm.”

“Okay. Boyfriend. I’ll do my best.”

They dusted their clothes of the sand that had settled there once Victor made it to his feet, Makkachin leaping to her feet, still spry for her later age. 

“I used to have a toy poodle, a lot like Makkachin. His name was- well, his name was Victor. Vichann. Because you were my idol when I was younger. What I mean to say, is that I was ignoring you because I didn’t want you to see my short-comings. I’ll make it up to you with my playing.”

Victor turned one last time to the ocean, one last breath of the briney air, before wrapping both of his hands around Yuuri’s, and tugging him and his blush closer. 

“Okay. I won’t let you off easy, then. That’s how I’ll show my love.”

“No! I want you to stay who you are, Victor!”

~~~

Victor, Yuuri, and Minako-sensei were gathered around the table in her dining room later that evening, discussing the specifics of Yuuri’s upcoming season. 

“Well, Yuuri has to do the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship, a regional competition, since he didn’t make the top three spots at the Grand Prix Final last season.” Minako said, stirring her tea. Yuuri blanched. Every time conversation brought up his failure at the Grand Prix Finals, Yuuri retracted back in his shell. 

As Yuko had told him, Yuuri was a very sore loser.

“Did he not do Nationals?” The silence was stilted.

“Yes. I made last place.” Victor winced. Nationals would’ve been his redeeming moment, had he thrown off his defeat at the Finals. 

“Why didn’t I hear about this?” Victor turned to stare pointedly at Yuuri, leaning close. “I thought I was your Instructor, Yuuri. If there’s anything I need to know, you will tell me.” 

Once he looked properly embarrassed, he backed away.

“The Nationals were like a couple weeks afterwards. I- I didn’t exactly have a presence of mind. Plus, to me, Nationals was just an extension of my failure at the Finals. That’s how I see it, anyways.” Yuuri fiddled with his glasses, which he did when he was nervous, Victor had noticed.

“Nevertheless, our first step to the Finals this year is the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship. That will determine our next course of action.”

Minako was clearly trying to avoid stressing Yuuri out too much by glossing over the fact that in order to enter the circuit for the Finals, Yuuri had to win the championship. Yuuri still looked miserable in the corner, clearly seeing through Minako’s delicate phrasing.

“If I don’t fail.” Was muttered under his voice as he stood up to place his dishes in the sink.

Minako and Victor exchanged exasperated glances from across the table. There were highs and lows when it came to Yuuri.

“Ready to go?” 

Yuuri nodded, distant. Victor needed to find a way to drag him away from the thoughts that stalked him. 

When they left, he dragged Yuuri away from their usual route, much to his protest.

“Victor! What are you doing? Where are we going?” Victor just flashed him a charming smile, amused at his flailing. Yuuri could be very dramatic, sometimes.

Yuuri soon resigned himself to Victor’s insistent pulling, though not tugging away his hand. Victor drew him closer, their hands swinging between them. Yuuri, he noticed, was not a particularly tactile person, always keeping distance between him and everyone else. But the closer Victor and him became, the more he allowed his touch. 

Yuuri and him were walking through the stalls that lined the market streets, lights illuminating everything in a warm, golden glow, interrupting the darkness of the night, giving the world many shades of shadows, from pitch black to light gray. Watching Yuuri’s eyes burn amber in their radiance was just as fascinating as the smoothness of his skin, which was the color of piano keys. Victor hardly paid any attention to the vendors calling out in rapid Japanese.

While the night was cooler than daytime, there was still that summer stickiness in the air, gripping at their skin. Yuuri talked to him throughout their mindless wandering about the foreign goods the vendors sold, and Victor ended up spending a lot of money, hooked by Yuuri’s delight as he described which foods were the best. 

Slowly, the shutters unbolted, and Yuuri’s face was open and beautiful in the way that joy allowed him to be. Slowly, their hands became intertwined, not just clasped limply between them. Slowly, yes, but Yuuri unfurling like a flower before him in the moonlight was worth every minute.

Eventually they looped around back to yu-topia, wanting to get some sleep before tomorrow’s practice, although Victor’s reason was slightly more selfish; being around so many people had started up another migraine. Fireflies flared around them, like a swarm of stars, as they made their way through yu-topia’s garden, their bright green reflected in Yuuri’s aura as he gazed at them in awe, silver tranquility threading throughout. Not for the first time, it struck Victor that Japan was beautiful, as he took in the galaxy flickering around them.

When Yuuri left for his room after whispering goodnight, Victor remained where he’d left him, watching his slender figure disappear, lighting up the hallway with his contentedness.

Beautiful.

~~~

The next morning, as Yuuri was heaving from his warm-up, Victor pulled out Minako’s speaker and dropped on the table with a loud thud, causing Yuuri to jump.

“Today, we’re going to learn your finale. You’ve gotten the hang of the Prelude since your battle with Yurio, so now it’s time to complete your program!” Victor’s enthusiasm was not matched, judging by Yuuri’s groan. 

“What’s the piece?” Despite the dread expressed, Yuuri was curious, demonstrated by the brief sparks of yellow erupting periodically around him.

“Un Sospiro by Liszt.” Yuuri choked.

“Victor. That piece is-”

Victor hit play, letting the perfectly even, smooth arpegios wash over them. He knew what he was getting them into by picking this piece, and the difficulty that came alongside it. Yuuri had trouble with keeping transitions smooth, so this piece would be nightmarish to perfect, but it was otherwise just Yuuri’s style. Plenty of opportunities to demonstrate his impeccable musicality and musicianship, and long, lovely phrasing. 

Victor clicked pause.

“Stop your fretting right there. I know you’ve been working on even transitions with Yurio in secret lessons, Yuuri. You don’t fool me for one second. This piece is perfect for you, so I don’t want to hear another word.” Yuuri squeaked, looking cowed. 

“Minako has already pulled together some choreography for this piece, so we’ll be working on that today.”

Minako, fashionably late as usual, strode into the room. With a single clap of her hands, Yuuri scrambled into first position, looking apprehensive. 

“What can you tell me about grace?” Yuuri looked confused, but responded with a sureness that suggusted he had been asked about this before from his mentor.

“Grace is expressing elegance and poise through movement.”

“Why is it important for dancing?” 

Yuuri’s brow furrowed, all confidence abandoning him. “Because it demonstrates refinement in technique?” 

Minako scrutinized him. “Close enough. You’re thinking too broad, think simple: grace is important in dance because it’s alluring, it’s beautiful. Today, I’m going to teach you how to move with a different kind of grace. With a woman’s grace.” 

Yuuri gulped, looking slightly daunted. “Okay. Why?”

“Because, do you know what un sospiro translates to?”

At Yuuri’s shaking head, she elaborated, arms crossed in front of her chest, a thoughtful look on her face.

“Un sospiro means ‘a sigh’. This piece is transcendental, tranquil, like a flower bowing to the breeze. Strength is good, but in order to truly understand Un Sospiro, you need to relearn fluidity, become more aware of your hips and neck. That is what we will learn.”

They began, Yuuri turning red in embarrassment on the occasions where he met Victor’s gaze while in strenuous positions. However, meeting the challenge in Victor’s gaze, he grew bolder as the lesson moved forward, which was both a blessing and a curse for Victor. On the one hand, Yuuri’s evolution was stunning, and on the other, he had to adjust in his chair on more than one occasion. 

Yuuri moved sensually, hips swaying, and neck exposed to the fluorescent lighting. For the second time, Victor caught sight of the Yuuri he had seen at the banquet, the confident, sexy Yuuri Katsuki, who knew exactly what he wanted, what Victor wanted. When Yuuri winked at him, Victor whistled in appreciation, captivated by his perfect balance of flexible strength and grace. 

Yuuri was captivating in all of his forms, in his versatility.

“All right, that’s enough for today.” Minako said, smiling soft, her aura shining with amusement as Yuuri relaxed and yawned. 

“Ready for practice, Yuuri?”

“Ready!” Yuuri always looked this way after ballet; confident, relaxed, and introspective. It was why Victor continued this aspect of their training. He had hoped that it would build faith in himself with the discipline and artistry of dance, and so far, it had worked wonderfully. 

“Then let’s put that grace to good use!”

~~~

The day of the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship was hot and mucky, having been preceded by rain for most of the previous week.

Yuuri was, however, ignoring this fact, instead looking at the ground in existential terror. Victor tried to the best of his ability to snap him out of it, but Yuuri was just as stubborn as he was a brilliant dancer, which was to say, impossible.

“Oh, Yuuri! Look! I think I see Minako!” Yuuri seemed to wither before his very eyes at that, making Victor confused. Wasn’t that supposed to make him happy? Victor sighed. Yuuri was the reason for most of his stress, these days. Then again, he was also the source of his happiness. 

It was in moments like these that he wished he had consulted Yakov on teaching before the man had shut him out. 

Yuuri had locked himself in one of the practice rooms available to competitors for his practice time, while Victor walked over to Minako, who looked concerned.

“Oh, I know that look. He’s nervous.” The warning blaring from her aura conveyed far more than her words.

“I need to find a way to get him out of his own head.” Victor murmured, partly to Minako, and partly to himself. He needed to do something before Yuuri imploded.

Once the announcement rang overhead for competitors to head to the green room, Yuuri trudged out from behind the glass door, hands fisted at his side.

A distraction, however, interrupted Victor’s inspirational speech in the form of a teenager with red streaked in his hair. He was clearly a competitor, judging by his badge. The new arrival barely spared Victor a glance, instead zeroing in on Yuuri with intense adoration.

“Oh my gosh! It’s Katsuki Yuuri! I’m so honored to finally meet you!”

Yuuri froze, looking at him dazedly, before seeing the badge around his neck and slamming up his defences. 

“Er, who are you?” The crestfallen expression on the poor kid’s face was pitiful. Minako leaned over to Victor.

“That’s Minami Kenjirou. He beat Yuuri at the Nationals.” 

“What!? Don’t you remember me from Nationals? I’m your biggest fan! I’m even playing The Raindrop Prelude, from your senior debut.” Yuuri turned practically transparent.

“What? You mean by Chopin? The opus from my dark and shameful past?” Victor frowned heavily, catching Minako’s eye darkly. She shook her head.

“What? You don’t have a dark and shameful past! By making fun of yourself, you’re making fun of me for liking you! You better give it all you’ve got, because I’m not going down without a fight.” Minami pointed his finger at Yuuri, tears shining in his eyes. 

“It looks like a challenge has been issued from Minami Kenjirou, a 17 year old who beat Katsuki in last year's Nationals…”

Yuuri’s jaw dropped, the name finally clicking.

The news reporter talked animatedly into his microphone, as Yuuri slunk over to where Victor and Minako were standing with crossed arms, less than impressed. 

“Yuuri! I’m disappointed in you.” Yuuri’s face fell, hurt welling up in his eyes. Victor gestured to Minami, who was by his teacher, still looking glum.

“How can someone who can’t motivate others motivate himself?” 

Victor left him to consider that, making his way back stage as Minako walked past him to the audience seating. Neither of them said another word to Yuuri, who looked lost.

Seeing as Yuuri had drawn first, he hesitantly shuffled on stage, face distraught. Victor felt the urge to comfort him, but did not regret his words. This was a lesson Yuuri needed to learn, and a crucial step in improving his self-worth. Victor knew that, even if it was unintentional, Yuuri had hurt a fan’s feelings, which Victor disdained. He had always made sure to appreciate those who supported him, even if he didn’t enjoy his own work. Yuuri needed to learn the boundary for when self-depreciation turned outwards on to others, needed to learn how to appreciate himself. 

Judging by the introspection in his eyes, Yuuri was figuring it out. Victor would let him.

Yuuri’s hands hovered into place over the keyboard, and began. 

While his Prelude had come a long way, there were still errors littered throughout, more to do with technique since they had rectified his issues with performance. His style could also be less legato.

But, overall, he captivated the audience from the first chord, sharp and brilliant and strong. The way he jerked his head to the side alongside the bass line drew a breath from Victor. He liked to watch Yuuri perform this piece. His body was positioned to give him an appearance of confidence and strength, the expression on his face dark, like he was telling a Grims fairy tale with his body and music. The legato passage was hypnotizing, despite the struggle with transitions, the pure passion in his playing erasing every mistake that came before it.

When he struck the final note, the audience burst into applause.

He had missed his g sharp, but he was already leagues above everyone else here.

Yuuri made his way to Victor, still looking sheepish. Minami, from a couple feet away, had started to make his way on stage, looking frightened at the sizable crowd at his feet, relatively young to the competitive scene. Victor watched as Yuuri looked over his shoulder, wondering what he was thinking. 

Yuuri hesitated only for a second, before cupping his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Good luck, Minami! Good luck!”

Minami looked about ready to die.

As they made their way back to the green room, Yuuri glanced at him, looking for approval, biting his lip in worry.

“Good job, Yuuri! But do you really expect me to believe that whatever you just played was ‘even phrasing’? Your little lessons with Yurio improved your technique, but believe me when I say that we’re going to spend an extra thirty minutes dedicated to fixing that atrocious sound! And you still missed that g sharp? How many more times do I need to smack you with Minako’s ruler until you can read music? Yuuri?” 

Yuuri had collapsed on a nearby bench, groaning.

Victor figured that while they waited for the finale round to begin, another distraction was in order.

“What are you doing?” Yuuri asked, tone sounding as though he had resigned himself to whatever fate Victor had in store for him.

“We’re playing cards. Have you ever played Mao?” Victor asked, all innocent, fluttering eyelashes and heart-shaped smiles. Yuuri rolled his eyes.

“Nice one, Victor. I lived with Phichit Chulanont for at least two years. Of course I’ve played Mao.”

“Hmm. How about speed?” Yuuri shrugged, which Victor took to mean as yes, laying out the piles of cards in the correct formation on the ground.

“Be prepared for defeat, my Yuuri.” Victor crooned sweetly, as his student settled on the floor across from him.

“You wish.” Yuuri’s determination was palpable, overriding his anxiety for the present time. 

Success. 

Unfortunately for Yuuri, Victor was a master at speed, having played it at so many auditions and competitions; twenty years of them, in fact. 

“Go!”

~~~

Yuuri lost, only winning one game out of three.

Victor didn’t gloat, instead offering him a water bottle as a consolation prize. Victor also hadn’t seen Yuuri drink much that day, either practicing or fretting or both, as was common. 

On their way back to the warm up room, Victor stopped Yuuri.

“Don’t over practice. If you haven’t learned it by now, then there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He nodded, aura pulsing in frustration that was not necessarily directed solely at him, but still conveyed his position on the issue. Victor remembered a time (like six months ago) where he had been the same, defying Yakov’s orders and straining his arm (which you can do; it hurts) resulting in one smug Yurio and one painful competition. Victor hoped to at least inspire some caution.

Yuuri locked himself in once more, absorbed in the little practice time he had. This time around, instead of thirty minutes, there were only fifteen. They passed like the sand from Hasetsu’s beach through their fingers.

“All contestants report to the green room, please.”

Victor knocked on the glass, grabbing Yuuri’s hand and tugging him along to their destination. Yuuri, while reverted back to pale and trembling, had that burning determination to win that Victor had only stoked in their card games. The distraction seemed to have worked fairly well, resetting his mind for the next round.

They sat in their designated chairs, waiting while the other competitors performed, anticipation humming in the air. The quiet was buzzing in their ears, the emptiness of the room disquieting, competitors disappearing one by one, until they were the only ones left. Victor thought that Yuuri would do better if he went first, but since he had scored the highest, he was to go last. 

When it was finally Yuuri’s turn, he had even further declined back into his anxious mental state, aura black and tumultuous once more. The steel in his eyes, however, had never disappeared, only shrouded by his anxiety. He came a breath away from his chin, coal boring into cerulean.

“Watch me, Victor.” 

Victor watched as Yuuri, too, disappeared. Victor followed him, resuming his place backstage.

Yuuri removed his glasses, cleaning swiftly, and returning them to their place, all while looking poised. From his place backstage, Victor could see everything, including the way Yuuri’s hands graced the keys; even the way he positioned himself was different from his Prelude. 

He began, swaying, every phrase growing and receding, the gentle rocking from the arpeggios reminding Victor of a boat at sea. Yuuri managed to fashion a sigh out of music, the lightness of his playing drawing Victor’s breath, pulling him forward from where he stood. The peacefulness on his face translated into his fingers, which never lingered for too long in any one place, always darting to the next note like dragonflies. 

Victor thought back to seagulls and fireflies, reminders of his past and promises of his future, and Yuuri, who wanted him to stay who he was when so many people expected him to be someone to suit their needs. Yuuri who had so many dimensions, so many complexities that Victor was always intrigued, always surprised. Yuuri who, for all of his anxiety and self-deprecation, never stopped trying to grow, never let them be the reason he gave up. 

Victor had come to Hasetsu for many reasons, but the only one that mattered was the reason he stayed; Yuuri. 

The notes rolled to a stop, ending on a chord that filled the auditorium with a rightness so perfect and quiet that not a single person moved until the pedal was released. Victor would, of course, berate him later for his many, many mistakes. But he could forgive Yuuri, because he’d only had the music for about a month, and nothing compared to watching Yuuri blossom under the stage lights.

The final chord had struck a new beginning; one for both Yuuri and Victor.

When Yuuri beamed up at him on stage as he received his certificate for first place, Victor could only hold his waist, and hope that Yuuri would stay close to him. 

Stay close to me.


	10. Cup of China Pt. 1: Expectations, Jars, and Other Broken, Stupid Things.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri competes at the Cup of China.
> 
> Or: Victor makes Yuuri show off his ass to a bunch of pianists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all.
> 
> This post is most definitely late. I know it seems like I've lost interest in this story, but that is 100% not true.  
> On June 1st, one of my family members passed away.  
> For the past two weeks, I've been trying to hold myself and my family together, and made a week long trip to L.A. for a funeral so large that the national guard was present.  
> Needless to say, whenever I have time to myself, I usually choose sleep.  
> However, now that I'm back home and in need of an escape, I will do my best to upload at least once a week, to the best of my ability.  
> I thank those of you who have supported this story, and who have made it this far. I've never written a fanfic before, so I'm a little nervous, but hopefully, it's turning out well. If not, you're welcome to leave some constructive criticism in the comments. 
> 
> Sorry to have kept you waiting! 
> 
> Enjoy :)

Yuuri relished what little time he had to just sit and contemplate. 

Ever since Victor had shown up in his life, his life flipped inside out and upside down, becoming inextricably linked with Victor’s. When Yuuri had first careened around the corner and straight into Victor, naked like his heart and standing as if he had been a statue at their Inn for all his life, Yuuri could only meander aimlessly throughout the shock. When he had finally cleared that fog from his mind, Yuuri kept busy by ignoring him. When he’d stopped doing that, all he did was practice for the Finals. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was spending time with Victor; sightseeing, errands for the Inn, and just talking. 

Yuuri didn’t have much time to himself. 

But he didn’t mind, because it was Victor.

As he lazily looked about his room, gaze like the flies in summer heat, Yuuri quickly realized that Victor’s presence still lingered on his bare walls, which had once held his image mapped all across their surfaces, eventually torn down and stuffed away when the real thing had waltzed in as a replacement.

The weeks that had been leading up until the Cup of China, where he was first assigned for the Grand Prix Finals circuit, had turned into days far too quickly. Every moment not on that stage of past grief and impending loss was a relief which burdened him more and more as the time stacked on his shoulders, minutes and hours turning into lead as they caught on his skin. 

The Music Castle Competition against Yurio, the Japanese Regionals, these were infinitesimal in comparison with the Grand Prix Finals, these were familiar agonies with smaller spotlights, smaller victories, and smaller failures. There was nothing small about the Grand Prix Finals. 

The Cup of China was, in every way, out of his league. That was where Victor and Yuuri would be tested. Would Victor leave if he lost, return to his pedestal high and far away from Yuuri? Would Yuuri be able to make the distance? Would he be able to shake off the barbs and memories of a cold night in Sochi? Yuuri didn’t know.

The absence of Victor was felt in more than just the emptiness of his room.

He had decided to go out drinking last night, and was most likely curled up in his bed, Makkachin besides him. It was Sunday, Yuuri’s designated break time, which actually meant only four hours of piano practice in the afternoon instead of the usual eight hours after ballet practice. 

Yuuri couldn’t help but be completely, devastatingly, hopelessly bored. 

That was where Victor’s absence was felt the most. Without his antics or blunt critiques, there was a distinct void at Yuuri’s side. Silence replaced the pestering him about his lackluster playing that day or amiable rambling about the day his third lover broke up with him publicly at his favorite Greek restaurant. 

Yuuri felt the strange desire to pester Victor. He had been so used to the constant attention that clung to him like fat he gained from Katsudon that he had forgotten what it felt like to be just a shadow, Victorless and restless. Which Yuuri feared, because he had gone his entire life within the boundary lines that both trapped him and kept out the world, he had been content with his isolation. When Victor had stepped across those lines, it should have meant immediate ejection, exile, like the girl in Detroit, but instead, Victor had acted as though they didn’t exist. 

Victor was a challenge to his entire way of life, from the moment he’d extended his promise in his family’s hot springs. But, as Minako-sensei had promised him so many years ago, challenges were a promise in the career of a musician, the curse and necessity that built up under the skin like muscle. No amount of accustomization, however, could prepare him for the predictably unpredictable genius of Victor. 

Yuuri’s phone rang, rousing him with interest from his boredom, which had begun the natural progression towards anxious agitation, a common, well worn journey second nature to being alone with his thoughts. The name, Phichit, caught Yuuri off guard. They had been texting occasionally since they had moved back to their respective homelands, but with the upcoming competition, Phichit’s entrance into the senior division, and Victor Nikiforov showing up on Yuuri’s doorstep, there was no time for either to talk for very long. This was a staple in competition season when they had both lived together in Detroit, as well. They usually disappeared during the day and reconvened for takeout. 

Thailand, though, was far away, and dinner was no longer an option. 

Yuuri swiped to accept the video call, rolling on to his side with a smile.

“Hi, Phichit! How’s Thailand?” 

His friend looked to be squared away in a practice room, judging by the piano sticking out from the corner of the camera view. Celestino couldn’t be far away, Yuuri mused, used to Phichit’s slight disregard for the rules.

“He’s good, but also down the hallway, so we don’t have very long. I just wanted to tease you about Victor for a bit.” He looked not at all sorry for the worryingly red stain on Yuuri’s cheeks.

“Maybe I should text Celestino, then?” Phichit flashed his teeth, the kind of dangerous smile which was seen by the many followers on his Instagram at least twice a day. 

“Maybe I should DM Victor?” Yuuri really should have expected that response. But regardless, it was a threat crazy and snoopy enough for Phichit to follow through on. He would probably ask Mari or his mom if Yuuri didn’t give him anything satisfactory, anyways.

“Fine. What do you want to know? There’s not anything scandalous, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Yuuri shifted slightly, feeling exposed under Phichit’s scrutinizing stare. What Yuuri wanted and what he knew constantly fought over every aspect of his life, but Victor was the battlefield on which there was the most carnage. But whether or not Victor wanted something scandalous, Yuuri did not know, and would never dare to presume. 

“I’ll be the judge of that. You’re oblivious, Yuuri.” Victor, apparently, was not the only person in his life that deigned it their responsibility to insult Yuuri into an early grave. “Where is he now?”

“He’s probably hungover in his room. Today’s my day off, anyways. Well, mostly off. Last night he was kind of out of it, went drinking,” Yuuri sighed, the same dread from last night churning in his thoughts. Victor was rarely ever absent and introspective unless Yuuri had done something to disappoint him. Last night, Victor only seemed capable of staring and silence, which had waned Yuuri paler than the moon. 

“Hmm. Maybe he was daydreaming about you, Yuuri.” Those teeth had never been hit with such an acidic look before, courtesy of Yuuri’s glower, but they still shone like the bright flash of his phone’s camera. 

“No, Phichit. Victor Nikiforov doesn’t ‘like’ me, he probably got bored being the best, or wanted a new project. I must have done something wrong in practice.”

Phichit frowned. “Don’t be like that. By insulting yourself, you’re insulting him, Yuuri. Don’t put words in Victor’s mouth,” he snickered, “put something better, like maybe your-”

“Phichit! No more talking about Nikiforov-”

“No, Yuuri, I haven’t told you what I know. I know that Victor likes you, and- quiet- you’re oblivious. I know if you weren’t so scared of the comment section on Instagram, maybe you wouldn’t be so clueless to the fact that in every picture you’re together in, his aura’s like one giant pink flag saying ‘I like Yuuri Katsuki’. He knows it, because he posts them, and everyone else knows it, because they look. You’re the only one who doesn’t, because you can’t bring yourself to think that some scumbag on the internet might not like it or that, maybe, you might be worthy of Victor Nikiforov.” 

Yuuri threw his hands up into the air, just wishing that Phichit would lay this beaten horse to rest. The horse being Yuuri. 

“But I’m not! And even if I was, why doesn’t he just tell me?” He knew perfectly well why. 

“Because, Yuuri, he doesn’t know you can’t read auras.” It was such an exasperated delivery, something so purely Phichit, that Yuuri’s defences slammed up. 

This was the tone Phichit used when Yuuri was being stubborn, the tone Victor used when Yuuri messed up the same measure over and over again, the tone Minako-sensei used when she caught him using his anxiety as a shield for uncomfortable situations. It was a tone that made him feel dumb despite the fact that he knew. He knew that Victor didn’t know about his disability. 

Phichit and everybody else thought that because Yuuri had the answer to Victor’s problem, he was obligated to give it. The truth was that Yuuri wasn’t comfortable; with the pity, and with the fact that, by saying the words out loud, he was validating every rotten experience his disability had caused him. It was better just not acknowledging it at all. 

“Maybe you’re not worthy of Victor Nikiforov. You and everybody else put him on the Victor Nikiforov throne, like some God. In all of your pictures with him, he doesn’t put ‘Yuuri Katsuki’ in the description, he puts ‘Yuuri’, because he sees you as more than just your public image, which you still think is reprehensible, for whatever reason. I think you should do the same. I think you’ll find that ‘Victor’ is a lot more attainable. I think you’ll find that getting to know the Victor behind the Nikiforov mask is far more gratifying than some guy on a poster.”

Yuuri let the words bounce off of his defenses like rocks, intending on waiting for when it was safe enough to pick them up to process their rough, comforting weight in his mind. 

“Anyways, I’ve gotta go. Celetino’s lurking, and I don’t want to give him another reason to do a bunch of scales tomorrow. I miss your insecurity complex, but I’m glad to be back with my family. And you better be watching me at the Cup of China, Yuuri, because I’m going to be the one to walk away with a gold medal.”

With a click, the call ended, leaving Yuuri with a feeling similar to being scolded by his mom. Phichit may be younger than him, but whereas Yuuri had maturity in places like discipline and adulting, Phichit was mature in the ways of confidence and the inner workings of the social order. 

He buried his face into his pillow, before rolling out of bed. It was best to leave that quiet room, because quiet rooms meant loud thoughts. Yuuri didn’t want to think.

He left the house for Minako-sensei’s studio, where he could leave his shoes and thoughts at the doorway and just make music. Yuuri had the place to himself with Minako-sensei off at her other job. After putting his phone on silent, he played the afternoon away, infatuated with the challenge and distraction that piano presented, something nothing else could achieve, except maybe Victor’s ridiculous antics.

Still, no matter how many times he resorted the notes in measure twenty six in Love’s Sorrow, his feelings still remained a mess. He revisited Victor’s piece in times like these, relishing the lack of looming expectation that muddied the precise speed of the Rachmaninoff and troubled the peacefulness of Un Sospiro. 

Eventually, though, he did end up practicing his repertoire as his thoughts continued their progression towards the upcoming competition and the anxiety that wrinkled his skin, creating fault lines that disfigured the smooth planes of tranquillity fixed by the hot springs.

“You play differently when I’m not around.”

Yuuri’s hand slipped and slammed down on the keyboard, whipping his head around to see Victor casually leaning against the door, that same blank expression from last night tugging down the corners of his mouth and eyes. The notes and thoughts that resonated in Minako-sensei’s studio had blinded him from everything but the pages in front of him, which rested marked in his binder, and he had not heard Victor’s entrance. 

Yuuri did not understand what he meant by that, whether it was a good or bad thing, and so remained silent and wide-eyed. 

“It is not so restrained and limited, like you are free. Do I make you feel trapped, Yuuri?”

These words felt like a test. Yuuri was sure the answer was not the one Victor wanted, but could feel the fragility spun like cobwebs between them, and did not want to be caught in a lie, however sincere he intended it. 

Truth be told, he wasn’t necessarily trapped only by Victor, but by himself, his own perceptions of Victor. His anxiety was cemented as a part of him, sabotaged him at every turn, but he did not want it. He must be pushing Victor away, he could tell by the distance so foreign between Victor and him and the way his body teetered backwards as he lay against the door frame. 

There was nothing that Yuuri wanted to change more and nothing that he could change less.

“Yes. But I’ve always been this way, even with Minako-sensei. This mental weakness is who I am.” 

Victor kicked off from the frame and made his way over to the piano bench, swinging each leg over with the grace Yuuri must have seen a thousand times on a thousand screens but never up close.

Victor sliding next to him was like the final puzzle piece sliding into place. He thought about Phichit’s words, about being forthcoming and brave. 

He also thought about being weak, being pitied. 

“You say you’re mentally weak. Why?” Victor was lightly gliding his finger across the piano, eyes staunchly ahead. Yuuri hesitated.

“Because it’s true? How many professional pianists do you know who can barely play for their teacher, much less an audience of one hundred? It is a mental weakness because it’s not just ‘stage fright’, it’s something that leeches off of everything I do, everything I think, everything I say. It is a part of me, a weakness.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Yuuri looked up when Victor returned his hand to his lap, catching the cerulean of his eyes, which hovered above him. 

“But it is. I don’t know how to change it, believe me, I’ve tried.” 

Victor looked away towards the window that overlooked the streets of Kyushu, the lazy afternoon slowly dimming into the traffic of evening. 

“Well, then. I guess since I’m your instructor, I’ll have to be the one to help you try.” 

When he returned to look down at Yuuri, there was no trace of masking or hardness to his face, except for the determined set to his jaw line. The soft question in his eyes told Yuuri that all was forgiven but not forgotten. Yuuri didn’t mind; everything between them would be sorted eventually, if he could only advance to the Finals. 

Making it to the Finals was the only way, wasn’t it? 

Yuuri just had to be strong enough to fight for what he wanted.

~~~

Numb.

There was something stopping his hands from trembling, just barely restraining his shoulders from hunching and his head from bowing, something weak and flimsy. Yuuri could feel it’s fragile persistence bend alongside the stresses of his thoughts, just waiting to collapse into himself like a black hole. 

Numbness was only temporary relief.

If hearing his name echo across the packed auditorium didn’t shatter it, then the stage lights would surely do the trick with a brutal severing. 

This was his official debut with Victor as his instructor; the entire audience held their breath for the moment when it was proven if Yuuri Katsuki was truly hopeless, if Victor Nikiforov was really any substance behind the meat of his talent. Yuuri’s instinct was to say that the defining moment was when he made a mistake, but Minako-sensei never let him forget the truth.

“Make them forget.”

Victor was a few feet behind Yuuri, who was perched just outside the curtains to watch Phichit, who was up first. 

Warm up had been simultaneously forever and no time at all, and suddenly, they were called to the green room. Victor’s pep talk rambling went over his head; what good were words of encouragement? Yuuri had learned a long time ago that encouraging pep talks did little for their effort.

“Encouraging words are great and all during practice, but I would never give them to you before an audition. You need to find balance. Balance hope with resignement, fear with peace. If you are too light on stage, the slightest mistake in your performance will send you crashing to the ground. If you are too resigned, your playing will reflect that, and the judges will put a big, fat X right through your name. Be too fearful, and you risk making way more mistakes than is accurate for your ability. Be too peaceful, and there is no motivation to challenge yourself, your reflexes are dulled. Balance is the universe, and so it must be in you.”

Victor, who had long since mastered his balance, could not fathom this. Minako-sensei, who had struggled like Yuuri for most of her career, said this with all the softness her stern ways could deliver. This was one of the ways in which Victor struggled when it came to teaching, despite his natural technical genius and emotional intelligence. 

“Before we begin with our first contestant, will the audience please silence your phones now. First to take the stage is Phichit Chulanont of Thailand, playing Etude Op. 25 No. 12, Chopin’s Ocean.”

The announcer repeated his words in Chinese, before the lights dimmed.

Phichit’s debut was upon him, lighting up his skin in a sea of scrutiny and critics hidden behind darkness.

Yuuri easily recalled Phichit’s fascination with Ocean, from the very beginning of their friendship. It’s famous reputation was a captivating allure for a Thai exchange student wanting to fashion his name in performing history, who missed the call of the ocean that embraced his homeland. To watch as that once young teenager take the stage as a new adult, fresh with a blank slate before him, his career so promising, invoked both pride and jealousy. Yuuri wanted that freedom.

He turned slightly to look at Victor.

Maybe his career could be promising, still.

Phichit sat enthusiastically at the bench, the only signs of nervousness being his cinched eyebrows and tense shoulders. He flashed the audience a wide smile, which Yuuri recognized as his before-performance ritual, one of the many he subscribed to. Phichit was determined for success in his senior division debut, having told Yuuri in a lengthy one-sided conversation in the green room, that he had made his bed that morning (unprecedented), ate a banana, and practiced yoga. No matter his confident visage, there was no denying that Phichit was very nervous.

Phichit’s first notes were sudden, his hands striking to the keyboard and letting loose an entourage of notes that flowed together like a stream of consciousness. This was how Phichit dealt with fear, with a motto of ‘just go for it’.

The gentle rocking felt similar to Un Sospiro, but whereas Yuuri’s piece was peaceful and calm, Ocean very much took to its name. There was turmoil like a vicious storm built in these chords, which rolled like enormous waves and crashed over the audience and into the very back wall. There was restlessness and majesty in every arpeggio. 

Phichit had once described to him the aura of Ocean, how marbled gold and black hugged every note, the way that as the piece transitioned from minor to major to minor, the ratio of both colors shifted alongside it. 

Music and art and people, all connect to one another through captured emotion, which gives off a beautiful glow that is worshipped in movies, books, music, and culture. 

To be blind to that entire dimension that existed around him, to be isolated in this way, was the most painful part of music. Music was his entire existence, his one love, and there was a part of it he could never reach, never experience. 

Phichit’s last chord struck, and with it, the audience’s delight spilled out onto the stage where Phichiit stood, bowing with a relieved grin.

Yuuri closed his eyes and retreated from the curtains, wondering if Victor being by his side was enough.

Victor grabbed Yuuri’s arm and dragged him back inside the green room, pushing Yuuri into a chair.

“Hmm. I think you should do some ballet stretched, Yuuri!”

Yuuri stared. “Victor, I don’t-”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, my Yuuri, it was an instruction from your piano instructor. First position.”

For the next ten minutes, Yuuri was forced to endure the embarrassment of performing various ballet stretches in front of the remaining contestants, picture perfect posture frayed at the edges from the heat of the stares, and mouth curled into the smallest smile. Minako-sensei wasn’t only Yuuri’s mentor, it seemed. It only made sense for Victor to look for guidance on how to guide others; he never did anything by halves.

When his name was called to make his way on stage, Yuuri toppled over on impact from his Grande Jeté, and was immediately relieved that playing the piano didn’t involve too much physical activity, before realizing that he had to pedal. Victor helped him up, kneeling to thoroughly check for injuries, before rising.

“The time for pork cutlet bowls is over, little piggy. Rachmaninoff’s Prelude is about passion, the darkest desire, and our humanity’s deepest urge to conquer. Think about what that means to you, Yuuri, and the gold will be in your grasp.”

He was sent off with a shove, but not before Yuuri cast his gaze over his shoulder, which flickered like lit coal under the dim lighting.

“Don’t ever take your eyes off of me.”

Yuuri felt strange in this new personna, which felt like everything he wasn’t and everything he wanted to be. What usually felt like an eternal death march up the stage now felt too quick, still seeing the open wonder on Victor’s parted lips, his eyes shining and focused entirely on Yuuri.

Yuuri felt that something give slightly as he sat and saw the expanse of expectations before him, Victor’s contemplative figure shrouded in curtains and darkness that hung around him like a robe adorning a king. 

But Yuuri could stand disappointing the world, his family, himself, even Victor. The only thing he couldn’t bear to face was being the reason everyone became disappointed in Victor.

Yuuri recalled Phichit and Victor’s confidence and assurity, their mastery in all things time and beginnings, and stuck the keys with all the anger and courage he could muster.

There was passion in anger, and Yuuri had a lot of anger to feed off of.

Yuuri’s anger had never seen the light of day before, fed off into the deepest part of himself, where it could scream and rave all it wanted without imposing on the people around him.

“Shove it in your jar, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri paused in his seething to look up at MInako-sensei in confusion.

“Where’s my ‘jar’?” 

“It’s the place deep in your chest where you put all of your negative emotions so you don’t blow up over stupid things, like scales of all things. You put your anger in your jar, and you examine it later, when you have a more objective perspective.”

Yuuri thought for a moment.

“But scales are stupid. I don’t need anymore stupid scales and I don’t need a stupid jar.”

Minako-sensei simply rolled her eyes.

“See. You let your anger get the best of you, and now I’m going to have to make you play two of every scale, alongside three wacks with the ruler. Do you get it, now?”

Yuuri had gotten it.

But now, he shattered his jar and watched the pieces cut into the music his fingers dug out from the piano, thinking of everything from when he was five years old to five minutes ago that ignited his blood.

From his non-stop isolation caused by a disability he loathed, to his mental weakness, to Victor, and how he had the depth and complexity Yuuri had never imagined from his poster collection. How Victor could switch to bubbly and open to introspective and dismissive without hesitance, how Yuuri could never read him. How Phichit’s senior debut went off without a hitch whereas his own suffered embarrassment and shame. 

To think that Yuuri had managed to fit all of these feelings and thoughts into a jar within the small confines of his ribcage. 

Victor had told Yuuri that in order to win the gold medal, he needed to think about what desire meant to him, but Yuuri couldn’t shake off this anger which commanded him forward to the front lines with no compassion, which infected his desire like a disease. 

Yuuri was sure that he wanted Victor.

And so, he harnessed his anger and fought through every measure, shouting to the world that, yes, Yuuri wanted Victor, but he was damn angry about it.

The last note rang out, and Yuuri was sure that he had never played so well.

The applause was washed away as he turned to look at Victor, who had both hands clasped in front of him, pure, childish joy rounding out his handsome, defined features.

“Yuuri! That was amazing!” 

Yuuri shot towards Victor, hastily stopping to bow to the crowd in sheepishness. Victor’s arms still found their way around him, gripping at his waist, despite Yuuri’s squirming at such a public display of affection. By the sound of cameras shuttering, their moment was being documented regardless of how much flailing Yuuri did. 

That was the reason he gave into the embrace, Yuuri told himself.

Now that he was far away from that piano bench, all of the anger that had burned freely had been slowly smothered, leaving behind relief in the places where Victor clutched him, that soothing warmth travelling across his skin like goosebumps. 

“There are three more contestants after you, and a two hour lunch break for the judges. Which means, there’s plenty of time for hotpot!”

Yuuri would probably have to settle for a salad; seafood did not agree with his stomach, and before a competition? That was the definition of disaster waiting to happen. 

Nevertheless, Yuuri smiled, allowing Victor to loop their arms together and march towards the exit.

“Yuuri! Oh, Yuuri!” Christophe Giacometti called out, expression devious despite the angelic length of his eyelashes.

“Hi, Chris.”

“Chris! It’s been a while.”

Victor clapped his hand on Chris’s shoulder, who turned to Yuuri, leaning Victor-like (without boundary) into his personal space. 

“My, Yuuri, those erotic moves in the green room were a sight. It seems Victor’s turned you bad. How naughty.”

Yuuri wished he were dead while Victor laughed, wanting nothing more than to pour bleach into his ears. If Beethoven could be a genius when he was deaf, then Yuuri could try, if only to never hear another word from Chris’s mouth. 

“How silly, Chris. Anyways, we’ve got to be on our way. Hotpot doesn’t eat itself.” Victor’s abrupt dismissal was disorienting, but Yuuri couldn’t say it wasn’t welcomed. He was still reeling from Chris’s comment.

“Goodbye, then. But, Yuuri, I didn’t know you were so selfish, keeping a man like Victor from the performing world. He was born to compete, you know, born for greatness.”

They parted ways, Chris sashaying away and Victor dragging Yuuri onto the streets of Beijing, where the heavy wind, thick smog, and looming clouds seemed reminiscent of the glare of stage lights.

Yuuri was, once again, just another face with a mask besides a celebrity.

Once more Victor’s shadow.


	11. Cup of China Pt. 2: The Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Finale section of the Cup of China.
> 
> Or: Minako-sensei is a drunkard, and Yuuri's halfway there himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> Happy Fathers Day. I spent most of last week making my dad a scrapbook of family photos. He's been having a very hard time with our loss, and he doesn't have a lot of pictures of his family, so me and my siblings took on the task. He cried a little, but loved it nonetheless. 
> 
> ALSO. The Last of Us Pt. 2 is out. Like?? Haven't played it yet, but my dad and I intend to after I get back from vacation next week. So excited.
> 
> And thanks for the comments and kudos! Love hearing from you guys. The story is on its way to different pastures...
> 
> Thanks for reading this far :)

Minako-sensei was the embodiment of her crafts; her movements were always with purpose and grace, her words always impassioned. She was always ahead of each beat that life lent her, because learning her place in the symphony was sculpted into her very being through years of harsh corrections from rulers and soothing encouragement that sanded away the fractures and roughness from her journey. 

But it was always apparent to Yuuri that when Minako-sensei had taken up teaching, she had lost that constant polishing, that drive to perfect her own techniques. She gave all of her knowledge and encouragement to his training, but never seemed interested in furthering her own.

Then there were days like these, days that passed in silence, days where all of their conversations were carried out with hand waves and sighs, days where she lagged behind life like the stitches in her sides had unraveled from too much running away. 

It was on days like these that after their lessons, Minako-sensei would stumble her way into Yu-topia with a six-pack, when his mother would wave him upstairs.

“Go to bed, Yuuri. Minako needs some alone time.”

“But why?” Yuuri always asked, straining his neck around the corner to maybe catch some glimpse of an answer or reassurance. There was always that sinking feeling as Minako-sensei downed cans after bottles. His mother never answered his question, always persuaded by her hesitation. He usually picked up Vicchan and turned away. 

Yuuri did not want to watch as the pile of discarded, wasted hours grew deep into the night.

He also never mentioned it to her, never acknowledged that side of her, in some ways afraid of it.

But today, Yuuri could not play a single thing right.

He had performed at a Regional level competition the previous day, or rather, bombed the Regional level competition. Minako-sensei hadn’t looked nearly as upset and disappointed as Yuuri had, and had still ruffled his hair and pinched his cheeks.

Today, however, through a spectacular alignment of stars, Minako-sensei had more than despondency in response to his slump. 

“Again.”

The way her eyes dissected and sneered at his technique reminded him of yesterday’s judges, of the audience and their cringing sympathy as he stumbled again and again and again.

“I- I can’t.” He released the pedal from under his foot, posture collapsing.

“Again, Yuuri.” Her voice was hard and unyielding. Yuuri had never felt so dismissed.

“I can’t do it! Can’t we do something else?” Yuuri said, desperately wanting away from the glaring that surrounded him, from the keys to the memories and to Minako-sensei, standing there just shy of anger.

“Yuuri. This isn’t a debate.”

“Minako-sensei, please, I think I can do it later, but if I do it right now I’ll just mess up-”

“Yuuri! Just play it again. Yesterday sucked for you, I get that, but you can’t just quit because you’re scared! You’re not a baby, so quit acting like one. I’m sick and tired of watching you self-sabotage yourself when you’ve got all the tools to greatness practically handed to you on a silver platter. So, for the last time. Play it again.”

Yuuri, just ten years old, began to cry. 

With Minako-sensei, rage was quick to die out. It took no longer than the first sniffle for her apathy to crumble like sand and her apologies to surge forward, kneeling down before him and pulling him by the shoulders into a hug. 

“Yuuri.” She ruffled his hair, her voice clogged with shame. They sat like that until his tears dried, Minako-sensei grimacing at the snot on her jacket.

“I deserved that.” She said quickly, noticing Yuuri’s mortification with the ease of practice.

She was not, however, practiced with the art of apologizing. Minako-sensei, in her quest to make it up to him, took him to the stands that afternoon and bought him sweets.

They sat together on a bench, both uncomfortable. They had never been at such odds before.

“So. That was- uh- very uncalled for. What I said. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, you’re like, nine.”

“Ten, Minako-sensei. Remember? Or maybe you don’t. You drank a lot at my party.”

She winced, ears turning red. “Sheesh, Yuuri. You sound like your mom.”

Yuuri nodded solemnly.

“No need to act so grave, Yuuri, I knew you were ten. But that’s besides the point. The point is that a lot of the stuff I said wasn’t meant for you.”

“Who was it for?” Yuuri asked, curious. Who could Minako-sensei be so mad at?

“Me.” She cleared her throat, looking at a flock of Seagulls wrestling for food further along the shore they overlooked.

“You? You’re not a baby. You’re the strongest person I know.” Yuuri said bewilderedly, blinking owlishly up at her, thinking of her easy confidence and of the achievements that decorated her studio walls. It was hard to think of her as someone who struggled.

Minako-sensei chuckled, reaching over to steal his glasses despite his squawking. 

“I never addressed my anxiety, so it just festered. That sort of thing has an expiration date. I just kept pushing it away and drinking it down until it all came up while I was performing a piano concerto in Carnegie Hall. I ran out in the middle of it because I spent most of my nights until that performance drinking instead of memorizing my part, so I didn’t know the music. I quit performing after that, I was so embarrassed.”

They watched in silence as the Seagulls hopped around, listening to the gentle tugging of the waterline at the sand. 

“What I said was out of line. You’re not going to end up like me, because I’m going to help you, with whatever path you decide to choose. Forgive me, Yuuri. I’m still learning how to teach greatness larger than myself.”

Yuuri smiled at her. “You’re the best Sensei ever. Of course I forgive you.”

Her grin lit up the shadows on her face from the day's dreariness, smoothing out her wrinkles. She winked. “Of course I am.” 

They sat for a few more minutes, slipping into introspection. Minako-sensei turned to Yuuri, looking him in the eye for the first time that day.

“Just remember this, Yuuri: Never underestimate the pain of losing something once you’ve had it. Drunks like me can never forget it.” The bitterness in her words spoke of larger regrets, bigger than any ten year old could comprehend. 

The dark fog cleared from her mind as though it had never been, like all these passing days before it.

“And, besides, your mom would kill me if you became a drunk. Now, enough serious talk! Let’s work on that Tchavkosky one more time.” 

Yuuri wondered if he was destined to follow in her footsteps.

Eight years later, Minako-sensei sent him to a new teacher.

Victor was dragging Yuuri down the cluttered streets of Hong Kong with an effortless glide that insulted his own stumble, passing by people, stores, and restaurants in a blur. 

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going in the middle of an international competition during lunch break? We’ve passed like three different high quality Hot Pot places!” Yuuri’s panic was cut short as he accidentally bumped into an elder man, whose sharp retort flew right over his head. Yuuri profusely apologized in some garbled mix of english and chinese, before Victor’s relentless pace snatched him away. 

“Oh, Yuuri! What would be the fun in telling you?”

Yuuri proceeded to endure another ten minutes of walking (stumbling) until they approached a large, sleek looking building, where there seemed to be considerable traffic. Whatever the building held, it clearly attracted attention. 

Victor hauled them both through the glass doors and towards a ticket booth, slapping his credit card on the marbled counter. Since Victor was determined to treat Yuuri like his suitcase for the moment, he contented himself with watching the gold flecks in the marble sparkle. 

Victor yanked Yuuri closer to him (ignoring his spluttering) and fastened a plastic wristband around his narrow wrist with a practiced hand.  
“Follow me, Yuuri! And welcome to China’s largest Aura Art Gallery!”

Yuuri swallowed, both in that Minako-sensei flavored bitterness and in endearment to Victor’s enthusiasm. He had always wanted to see one, heard recollections from Phichit about the beauty and masterful storytelling employed in these artworks. And nothing beat the beaming excitement on Victor’s face, the way his eyes snapped to Yuuri’s face to see if he liked this brand of distraction. 

Yuuri smiled. “Lead the way.” Secrets were for another time.

Victor wasted no time, practically skipping down the hallway, although this time he kept a reasonable pace for Yuuri to match. 

There were entire rooms dedicated to a certain emotion, everything from the wall color to the furniture to even the lighting suited to match them. The room for love was especially mortifying, because not only did it look as though a cupid exploded all over it, but a photographer was stationed at the entrance, taking photos with romantic filters added that were projected on a screen on the wall. It didn’t help that Victor had grabbed him by the shoulder and thigh and dipped him in the photo, either. 

Some rooms were also theme oriented, each painting portraying a different take. There were even rooms where each painting told a story, which Yuuri couldn’t really follow because a lot of the connotations and meaning were hidden inside that untouchable dimension. Despite this, the artwork itself was already engaging and beautiful, so Yuuri allowed himself to be swept up in the distraction, in Victor’s love.

Victor was constantly chattering about the paintings and the artist’s intentions, just as passionate about storytelling in visual art as he was in auditory, eyes shining.

“I used to go to these all the time as a kid. I’ve always loved aura’s and how they can be used to communicate and express emotion. I come here now to get inspiration. I find that the best way to get better at mastering the art of performance is to look at other artist’s work.”

Yuuri considered how different they were, how Victor saw a world exploding in color while he only saw the surface level design. How different they saw the world. What would it be like to walk around and see auras, to notice someone first by their emotions and not their appearance? How many problems did Yuuri encounter on a daily basis that could be simply fixed if he wasn’t blind to them? He wondered what the world thought of him. Would he be a better performer if he could see auras?

Yuuri shifted, familiar questions igniting that circular frustration that sent him spiraling round and round. 

Auras were an integral part of Victor’s life, something he cherished and enjoyed perfecting, and Yuuri could never even hope to understand it. Yet another unreachable part of Victor’s world.

They continued on their exploration through the art gallery, Victor eyeing the clock for time. 

“Ah. I suppose we should head back if we want to have enough time to grab something from a vendor.” Yuuri shrugged and followed his lead, reverting back into the tumultuous silence that persisted before a performance. Never had he started a competition so strong, and now that his spotlight was shared by Victor Nikiforov of all people, the implications of his failure were disastrous. 

By the time they returned to the performance hall, Yuuri was paler than usual and practically non-responsive to Victor’s spiels. 

“Yuuri.” They were stopped in the middle of the empty hallway that led to the practice rooms, stuck in place by that assessing stare. All Yuuri wanted to do was feel the reassurance of the keys beneath his fingers, to remind their muscles of the strength they possessed, to be sure that the decades of experience before this hour were all real, yet here they were, stopped.

“We have to go, Victor.” 

He looked as though he were going to say something else, but his face briefly collapsed in pain, ending the words before they could leave him.

“Yuuri, go ahead to the practice room. Don’t wait up, I have to go to the restroom.”

He could only watch as Victor turned without hesitation and left him in the stale, well furnished hallway. Yuuri felt the trembling begin, standing frozen where Victor left him, wanting desperately for the glint of silver in the fluorescent lighting. He had forgotten how hard it was to make that walk to the practice room, on stage, alone.

He shook his head. He had to do this for Victor. He couldn’t fail now.

Instead of waiting for someone to find him like this, he carried himself to the practice room on shaking legs. 

Staring down at the elegant pattern of black and white, he couldn’t help but think that even they asked so much of him, just Yuuri, that the world asked so much. That he himself asked too much. These expectations were chained to his hands, straining them.

Practice, needless to say, went horribly.

The only emotion he could breathe to life was fear, which tainted Un Sospiro’s tranquility, and caused his technique to suffer terribly. His playing wasn’t able to flow because his pulse forced his pacing to become jagged, in turn messing up his internal metronome, causing him to rush. 

By the time all performers were called to the green room, Yuuri was sure that the Grand Prix Finals had fallen from his grasp.

He kept constant watch over the entrance to the green room, pleading for Victor’s return, for that easy distraction he had never expected to miss. Instead, he was forced kicking and screaming through every second, watching as each person left for their performance one by one.

When it was his turn, Yuuri dug his fingers into his hair and breathed. Victor wasn’t anywhere to be found, but that didn’t mean Yuuri had to give up. He would show up to watch him perform. This was what Yuuri told himself in order to convince his stomach to settle and his legs to hold his weight.

He thought of Victor’s stride on stage, and nearly laughed at how much more incompetent Yuuri’s walk was compared to his. The announcements were drowned out by flashing cameras and hushed whispers, and, in the distance, five lamps glowing. Five pens, hovering over paper, ready to inscribe his failures and successes. 

No matter how hard he scoured, Minako-sensei’s face was lost to the crowd. Phichit had gone first and had probably left to rest before the results. He was surrounded alone.

Once the world and sound dimmed with the lights, Yuuri looked over to the curtains, looking one last time for silver and cerulean blue. 

There was nothing but darkness and expectations.

As he played, the notes unraveled beneath his fingers.

Cup of China results:

1st place: Phichit Chulanont

2nd place: Christophe Giacometti

3rd place: Georgi Popovich

4th place: Yuuri Katsuki

5th place: Leo de la Iglasia 

6th place: Guang Hong


	12. Rest, Victor, and Other Nice Things We Can't Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rostelecom Cup.
> 
> Or: Phichit is the only emotionally mature character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!
> 
> To keep it short, I was a little busy with The Last of Us Part II. 
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments! I love feedback, and I always make sure I get to all of the responses as soon as I see them.
> 
> Thanks :)

“Yuuri, I think we should stop for the day-”

“No, I need to do it again.” Yuuri felt every second wasted on empty breath and empty words pile up in a bonfire ignited low under his core.

“Yuuri-”

He dismissed Victor not with the apathy of a gesture or the frustration of words, but with the urgency of his playing. These days, Yuuri did not have the patience for anything, except for urgency.

“I won’t let you play yourself ragged. I understand that the Cup of China-”

“Was a mistake.” There was no lightness or grace to be found in the tense form of his hand as he rolled his fingers across the keys, not sparing a moment's pause. “I can’t let it happen again. I need to be in first place at the Rostelecom Cup to have a chance at the Grand Prix Finals. I can’t make any more mistakes.”

He stopped to shake out his hands, eyeing them with frustration.

“That was too choppy. No matter what I do, it’s always too choppy.”

Victor shook his head, the whiplash leaving a familiar burn on his cheeks, making him feel that if he looked in the mirror, he would see the imprint of a hand.  
“You’re tense because you’ve been up since five am. If you rested, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

Yuuri had never left the stage in Hong Kong, still remained the sum of those mistakes, of those unimpressed sneers that had found him on his walk of shame to Victor. He was sure Victor wouldn’t understand this, was unsure as to how he could even communicate this feeling to someone who probably didn’t remember the paranoid sickness that failure awarded.

There was this driving impulse to run through his program again and again, to relive those moments in the practice room. For acceptance, for peace.

Every part of Yuuri was exhausted, this was true. But there was an entire world of difference between rest and seeking it; the very nature of this paranoia born of failure pumped adrenaline through his veins. Rest was a fairytale.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that pitch black maw staring at him, the grin of the piano before him. He could not stand to live there in his mistakes through endless loops, to stand frozen in wasted seconds. It was better to play through those nightmares from beginning to end, to temporarily fix his playing, if only to feel as though he were improving for a moment.

Victor sat decidedly next to Yuuri on the bench, seemingly unbothered by Yuuri’s dismissal. He snatched the sheet music for Un Sospiro and replaced it with-

“Petite Suite by Claude Debussy?”

Yuuri shifted as he felt Victor’s warm strength seeping in through his sweater from the left side. There was something so soothing and nerve wracking about being side by side to Victor, being simultaneously next to the compassionate person and the world class pianist.

Yuuri’s vulnerability shifted from his back to his face, which Victor studied with his uncanny shrewdness. When their eyes met, Victor’s smile switched on.

“Sometimes the best way to prepare your music for competition is to take a break and work on other music. You can then tackle your music afterwards with a fresh start. This piece, the Petite Suite, is arranged for four hands. As you can see, there are two copies of this piece, one for each of us. You’ll be reading the one titled ‘Seconda’.”

Yuuri, fascinated and terrified with the idea of playing alongside Victor Nikiforov, shuffled the seconda towards him, studying it with intrigue. What are you doing, Victor?

Victor inclined his head to the music. “Why would I choose this piece?”

In all of their various learning escapades, Victor always demanded Yuuri to answer the why. Yuuri always sighed in exasperation. Wasn’t it Victor’s job to figure that out? If Celestino or Minako-sensei wanted him to do something; they never asked him why, they told him. Yuuri wasn’t the genius, the superior, otherwise he would be the one teaching.

The first and only time Yuuri had pointed that out, Victor had simply said Well that wasn’t the right answer. Try again, little piggy.

Instead of grouching, he had learned quickly that doing what Victor asked was the fastest and most efficient way of handling him.

Yuuri analyzed his part with little resistance.

“It looks like Un Sospiro, with all the ascending arpeggios.”

Victor set his hands in position above the keys with a nod and a smile.

“Yes! Except these are broken, not quite as long or encompassing. Breaking the technique into more manageable and comprehensible chunks is great practice. And sight-reading is always so much fun!” Victor looked far too giddy at that exclamation.

Yuuri felt queasy. Sight-reading? Fun? I guess he certainly is a prodigy.

Yuuri joined Victor, hands prepared, scanning ahead in the music. There was this intense feeling of needing to prove himself to Victor after such a disastrous showing, after Victor had been too embarrassed by his performance to attend. He imagined how ashamed he must have been, to bear the spotlight, the criticism, alongside Yuuri. No matter how you looked at it, Yuuri was tarnishing his sterling reputation.

Sometimes he never wanted Victor to leave, and sometimes, he wanted him to spare both himself and Yuuri the burden of Yuuri’s failures.

Victor counted them off under his breath, a relaxed onetwothree fourfivesix.

The rough start that they endured (Victor’s second coachism, besides brandishing Minako-sensei’s ruler with uncanny enthusiasm, was to brandish that ruler every time Yuuri stopped after making a mistake) evolved into some sort of concentrated peace.

Victor made accompaniment feel like a duet, made their individual parts blend so effortlessly it felt like falling asleep into a dream world strung together with delicate phrases and lulling melodies.

Playing a duet with someone else forced Yuuri to be in tune with every aspect of Victor, to recognize his shallow, sharp breaths before phrases, to watch his gentle sway so that their dynamics synchronized. Never before had Yuuri become so aware of another person.

All of Yuuri’s fears and urgency fell away to black.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Their duet had left Yuuri breathless, relaxed, and bafflingly confused.

Especially because Victor rarely joined Yuuri in Minako-sensei’s studio anymore, not since the Cup of China. There was this chasm between them despite all the ways in which they were inexplicably tied, despite the clear disapproval burning in Victor’s gaze every time Yuuri snuck away to practice. Victor barked out his stretches in the morning (he had reimplemented them after Yuuri’s latest failure) and left promptly after, and always seemed to be missing from dinner.

This behavior was so unlike Victor that Yuuri was sure that it was his fault.

Yuuri was hurt.

Victor’s insistence to believe in him had mattered to him more than he knew, because now that it was gone, Yuuri constantly yearned for it. He missed the certainty in Victor’s voice despite the directionless lesson plans and random scavenger hunts that never seemed to have a purpose until after midnight. He missed the optimism blunted by his surprising astuteness.

He missed Victor.

Yuuri pushed his plate away mostly untouched.

What was worse than missing Victor?

The idea that he didn’t miss Yuuri back.

The night before he and Victor flew into Russia for the Rostelecom Cup, Yuuri facetimed Phichit. Yuuri had done so for most of the past week, partly because he had been going through a rough patch with his family who disapproved of his career choice, and partly because of the wracking guilt that had infested him because of his intense feelings of jealousy at the Cup of China.

Yuuri wanted so desperately to push them away, to prove that they did not exist, to punish himself for feeling that way about his best friend.

“Sawasdee Krab, Yuuri! How have you been holding up?”

Yuuri greeted him in return, searching for some sort of answer that didn’t end with ‘having a panic attack’. The last thing he wanted to do was look his demons in the eye so close to hell.

“It’s been fine. How is your family? Did they lay down the laws yet?” Phichit had been staying with his parents while in Thailand, parents who were very strict, even to their adult, world class musician son.

Phichit laughed, rolling his eyes. “Only if you count condescending talk-down lectures at dinner. But thanks to your advice, oh peacemaker, I don’t think they’ll be trying that anytime soon. Who knew that politely standing up for yourself could feel so liberating?”

Yuuri matched his grin.

“But enough of that. You haven’t been fine; I’m not stupid, Yuuri. You look like a vampire.”

Yuuri’s smile easily fell. “Yeah, uh, you caught me. Actually, I kind of wanted to ask you about Victor.”

A serious expression replaced Phichit’s tut at the sight of Yuuri picking at his nails. “Hmm. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. He avoids me, and I don’t know why. He’s being weirdly not Victor.”

Phichit scrunched up his face in thought, before he narrowed his eyes at Yuuri.

“Oh no. You’re doing the thing again.”

“The what?”

“The not communicating thing. Didn’t we have a talk a few weeks before where you promised you were going to tell Victor about your situation? Call me Sherlock Holms because I have the sneaking suspicion you didn’t.”

Yuuri blanched. He could easily pull up some excuse, but he knew that doing so would be an insult to both his own and Phichit’s intelligence. Yuuri despised his expressions inability to contain the volatility of his emotions.

“I don’t know, Phichit. I don’t need to give him another reason to pity me. This shortcoming has no reason to be dragged out into the open, so why should it?”

Phichit, naturally, ignored the last part of his bullshit.

“Yuuri, I’m not going to go into the entire essay I’ve prepared on why that’s a misleading way of looking at the situation, but just know that what you just said is part of the problem. I’m going to give you one word of advice, and it will now be the advice I give you on all Victor related problems in the future: communicate.”

Yuuri shifted on the hotel bed, plucking his glasses off of his nose and cleaning them with hastened swipes.

Phichit’s sigh at his silence was telling.

“Listen. Take it or leave it. But know that I’m rooting for you in Thailand. Call me tomorrow night, Yuuri, no matter what happens.”

Yuuri’s gut wrenched at the thought of an unknown future beyond the Rostelecom Cup. He managed his goodbyes mindlessly, frozen in place.

What if his relationship with Victor was irreparable, all because Yuuri was too reserved?

What if he lost his one chance to redeem himself at the Grand Prix Finals tomorrow?

Yuuri allowed himself to wander down the morbid fantasies these questions evoked for the next hour until Victor returned from his quest for food.

“Yuuri?” Victor looked surprised to see him there, pale and small against the sheets.

Yuuri looked up at him, and managed some imitation of a smile.

“Wow. Hot Pot again, huh? You really like that stuff.”

Victor set down the food and walked up to him, sitting side by side, like the duet they shared a few days prior. Except that no matter how much he tried, Yuuri couldn’t fathom what Victor was thinking.

“I should make this clear, Yuuri.” He sounded hesitant, searching.

Yuuri felt his secrets press up against his clenched teeth.

I like you.

I can’t see auras.

They consumed him.

“You’ve never disappointed me, even when you’ve disappointed yourself. As your coach, I am the person who believes in you the most, even more than you. But, also as your coach, I must tell you that if you don’t advance to the Grand Prix Finals, then I will do my duty and resign.”

All of Yuuri’s secrets became scattered.

The crawl of shame on his skin and tears up his throat was nothing in comparison to the humiliation of thinking that he, Yuuri Katsuki, could ever be enough for Victor Nikiforov.

The look of shocked panic on Victor’s face when he glimpsed at Yuuri’s face almost warranted pity. Almost, because Yuuri was angry first and foremost.

“Stop testing me. I know how badly it looks to coach a failure. I know that everything I do reflects on you. So don’t lie to me about believing in me because if you believed in me, you would’ve been there for me.” Yuuri stood up quickly, furiously scrubbing at his face, and bolted for the bathroom.

Yuuri stayed in the bathroom for longer than he would admit.

The minute he left, he headed straight for his bed, not acknowledging Victor more in embarrassment than in pride.

Neither said a word.

~~~~~~

Yuuri woke up to the quiet click of the hotel door. He slid from one nightmare into another.

“Yuuri.” Victor’s voice was half gentle, half hesitance, his hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “Yuuri. I brought tea and breakfast. We have to leave in an hour.”

Yuuri hated this.

He hated being mad at Victor.

He turned over to face him, slowly scooching up into a sitting position, yawning as he reacquainted himself with reality. His stomach did a strange lurch at the sight of Victor’s beauty highlighted in the morning sun. The pinched furrow of his eyebrows and tense set of his shoulders revealed a nervousness that disarmed Yuuri. This was a new dimension of Victor, another layer peeled back in his enigma.

Victor faced him as he sat down, handing Yuuri his peace offerings with a question flashing in his eyes and the tilt to his head. Everything about this morning moment was fragile and vulnerable, colored in the flush of their cheeks.

Yuuri offered him a small smile, which was all Victor needed.

“I’m new to the whole coaching thing. You’ve been everything I didn’t expect as a student; I should have handled this better. I guess we probably should have communicated better, now that I think about it…”

Yuuri’s eyebrow twitched. Phichit’s going to never let this go.

“Yeah. Sorry. It’s hard, um, for me to ask for things. To ask for help. I’ve always been so independent. But you becoming my coach has been the best thing to happen to me. I won’t let you down today.” The way Victor’s face lit up made the restless nightmares worth it.

“You won’t, whatever happens.”

~~~~~~~

Yuuri passed Yurio in the hallway on the way to the green room, briefly startled at his kitten-like snarls. The encounter went about as well as it could have, considering that Yurio was always at 150% intensity. Yuuri couldn’t help but smile.

There was much yelling at how much Yuuri was going to be ‘owned’ in Yuri’s homeland and some piece of encouragement wrapped in an insult. You can’t possibly fail as bad as last time, piggy. Don’t let me down by sucking!

When the piano was once again before him, and the distant camera flashes twinkling like stars against the black, Yuuri’s eyes couldn’t help but wander back to Victor, who stood contemplatively behind the curtains.

“Hey, Victor!” A group of Russian girls from the accompaniment division rushed up to them, ignoring Yuuri in favor of Victor, who flashed them a big, media smile.

“Hello! How’s Yakov doing? I’m sure Yurio is wonderful at aging Yakov tenfold, just like me.”

The smaller girl who had called out to Victor laughed. “He’s practically begging for you back. You were good at keeping Yuri distracted. When are you coming back, by the way? This coaching thing isn’t going to last very long.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Yuuri, who made himself busy by fiddling with his phone.

Victor beamed. “Yakov, beg for me back? He surely can’t be that desperate. Anyways, you’ll have to excuse me. My Yuuri and I need to get backstage.”

Yuuri thought about those girls, who clearly thought him nothing more than an inconvenience for Victor. An obstacle. He thought about his own doubts.

And pushed them away.

He believed in Victor, who, despite all the evidence, still believed in Yuuri.

That was enough for him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Yuuri played the Rachmaninoff better than ever before.

At least, that’s what Victor said. Yuuri couldn’t recall a single note.

“Trust me, Yuuri. That was amazing! Everything was so-”

Yuuri blocked out the words coming from Victor’s mouth, only focusing on the passion brimming in his eyes, swelling in his voice like a symphony. The fact that Yuuri had been the one to incite this emotion, that Yuuri had even a chance of making up lost ground, at advancing to the Grand Prix Finals was unfathomable in the most giddy way.

Yuuri felt those words again.

I like you.

I can’t see auras.

Those secrets were nearly free from their closely guarded cage for the second time.

“Victor?”

Victor remained a few feet back, staunch still.

For a moment, it looked like he wasn’t breathing at all, standing with his head clasped between his palms. Yuuri approached him, hearing dulling until only the bashing of his heart against his ribcage remained.

“Victor? Are you-”

With a spasm Victor collapsed to the ground, a guttural moan of pure, undiluted agony was pulled from his throat like string. Someone screamed.

“Call 911-”

That morning, Yuuri had seen Victor vulnerable. He had seen Victor surprised. But never.

Never had he seen Victor look so defeated.

Yuuri stumbled towards Victor, unable to look away, kneeling to prop Victor against him.

“Victor? Victor, can you hear me?” The only response came from Victor’s iron grip on his hands, squeezing it so that Yuuri could feel his joints creak.

“Hi, we’re at the Rostelecom Cup in the Moscow Performing Arts Center and- yes, that’s the one- a man just collapsed. He looks like he’s spasming- I don’t know. Ok, thanks-”

How had he missed this?

Yuuri didn’t know which one of them was shaking more. Yuuri could only hold him, keep him close; never had he held such little power.

An older woman burst forth from the crowd surrounding them, calling his name, asking him that damned question. 

Yuuri looked towards the stage and all of it’s promises. He looked towards success, towards his second chance.

And he looked down at Victor, who flailed in pain, in pain he had surely buried. At the person who believed in him, the person he had grown to know and cherish as a coach, as a friend, as more.

There was no choice for him. And he told her so.

How could Yuuri miss this?

Rostelecom Cup Results:

1st- Jean- Jacques Leroy  
2nd- Yuri Plisetsky  
3rd- Michele Crispino  
4th- Emil Nekola  
5th- Seung-gil  
6th- Yuuri Katsuki


End file.
